


Go Slow Go Slow - Wakanda Princess Remix (feat. Shuri)

by AllWhoWander (phobean)



Category: Black Panther (2018), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes & Shuri Friendship, Gen, Goats, Guest Stars, Healing, Humor, Original Character(s), Shuri & Sam Wilson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28994952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phobean/pseuds/AllWhoWander
Summary: “What is the meaning of this?” Shuri demanded.It was beyond rude to sweep into her brother’s private rooms, especially when he was (apparently) entertaining someone over breakfast. Bast Knows she’d been reprimanded for it enough times by T'Challa and their mother. Not even remotely her fault. As Wakanda’s lead innovator, disruptions from her carefully cultivated (“mildly obsessive” T'Challa would argue) routine of rising at dawn and taking repast in her lab nestled in the Vibranium mines to review the previous day’s accomplishments and learnings, were a travesty, an insult, and dangerous. T'Challa had to be behind this outrage. Who else would dare?“Excuse me?” her brother said.-or-Two years after the Battle of Earth, Shuri gets ejected from her lab and crashes Sam and Bucky’s cross-continent road trip.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17
Collections: Marvel Fans 4 BLM 2020





	1. Shuri Crashes Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naryathered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naryathered/gifts).



> Welcome to my humble Marvel Fans 4 BLM offering. Lots of firsts here!
> 
> First thanks go to naryathered for taking a chance on a new(ish) fanfic writer, and for dreaming into this story with me. I’m so excited for you to finally read it. 
> 
> Special thanks to chilibabie07, who holds the distinction of my being first ever fanfic beta reader. I’m grateful for the time you carved out for this ever-expanding story.
> 
> Thank you also to my IRL partner who not only offered helpful suggestions, (despite household disagreements over commas and semicolons), but also helped select a title.
> 
> Lots of music inspired this story, check out a short playlist: http://bit.ly/go-slow-playlist
> 
> All errors, likewise and otherwise, are mine. Marvel properties belong to Marvel and Disney.
> 
> Updates post on Mondays, Wednesdays and Sundays, apparently. (Still trying to get this schedule thing under control.)

_“Get up offa that thing  
And shake 'till you feel better”  
\- James Brown_

_"Somebody done changed the lock on my door"  
-B.B. King_

\---

“What is the meaning of this?” Shuri demanded.

It was beyond rude to sweep into her brother’s private rooms, especially when he was (apparently) entertaining someone over breakfast. Bast Knows she’d been reprimanded for it enough times by T'Challa and their mother. Not even remotely her fault. As Wakanda’s lead innovator, disruptions from her carefully cultivated (“mildly obsessive” T'Challa would argue) routine of rising at dawn and taking repast in her lab nestled in the Vibranium mines to review the previous day’s accomplishments and learnings, were a travesty, an insult, and dangerous. T'Challa had to be behind this outrage. Who else would dare?

“Excuse me?” her brother said, pausing with a gilded, porcelain tea cup halfway to his mouth.

Behind him, in the quiet solar off his bedroom and office, sun filtered through sheer drapes covering several floor-length windows. Hidden speakers played soft jazz and the airy space smelled fragrant and sweet. On the round, wooden table that separated T'Challa from his guest, sat a display of baked treats; steaming, scrambled eggs; bacon strips, and a pale melting-butter-pat adorned hash whose name Shuri couldn’t recall —an American breakfast. Her eyes lifted from the food to the American in question. Sam Wilson, current so-called Captain America, gamely raised his own tea in greeting. Shuri ignored him, quashing a spike of curiosity at his presence.

“Yes, excuse you, brother,” She strode to T'Challa’s shoulder and, before she could think better of it, plucked the cup from his hand. “My lab is locked and I cannot imagine you know nothing about that. Claim you don’t. Go ahead.”

T'Challa shifted sideways in his chair and gave her a look as she boldly slurped. Rooibos. Shuri hated rooibos. She possibly hated everything right now. How dare he put her in this position?

“Have you lost your senses?” he murmured. Flicking his eyes towards Sam and back, he tilted his head.

Swallowing a groan, Shuri spun on her heel, raised her chin, and told the distraction, “Hello, Captain Wilson. It is good to see you on this morning while I am being kept from my work for reasons I do not comprehend, but assume relate to my brother’s whims and condescension. I trust you are well?”

“Uh,” Sam squinted at her uncertainly. “It’s Sam. We ain’t strangers, after all that.”

All that. What an annoyingly American trait, reducing the pain, terror, grief, and chaos of the Battle of Earth against Thanos and the Black Order to a pithy sound bite. 

Sam folded his cloth napkin and set it atop the table as he leaned forward, attention fully on Shuri, “What seems to be the problem? Anything I can help with?”

Shuri nearly snorted. Turning back to her brother, she said, “I don’t know. T'Challa, is there? When I went to my lab this morning, the door was shut, locked, and none of the researchers could tell me why or figure how to get me in. Even odder, your lab appears to be unlocked.”

Her brother raised both hands, “Shuri, how can you level this many accusations so early in the morning! Why would I lock your lab? When would I? Have you checked your kimoyo bracelet? Perhaps the key fob disconnected.”

“Have you tried turning it off and on again?” Sam added, far too much sparkle in his eye.

Shuri rounded, prompting him to lean back. She said, “What brings you to Wakanda, Sam Wilson? Shouldn’t you be 14,000 kilometers away, Captaining America?”

Behind her, T'Challa laughed and acquiesced. “Come sister, join us. Sit. There’s plenty for sharing and Sam was just explaining his need to visit the countryside to speak with our friend.”

“Our friend” meant only one person, the very person who continued to inspire surprisingly intense protective urges in Shuri. Well, maybe not that shocking. For no one else did she spend months in research and consultation with Wakanda’s brightest neurologists, psychologists, and physical and occupational therapists. No other circumstances could have inspired such need. Usually, Shuri’s intellect and experience, young though she was, were up to the task. Un-brainwashing a 90 year old super-soldier turned mind-controlled Russian assassin turned sad-boy fugitive-refugee wasn’t something most people would claim expertise in, but now Shuri knew more about James Barnes’s neurology than maybe even Bucky himself. She felt so fierce on his behalf, she nearly forgot her original charge against T'Challa.

Nearly. Not quite. “We’re not done,” she warned her brother, and then took a seat between them. “What do you want with Barnes?”

“Shuri . . .” T'Challa said, but she had no use for his manners or reproach.

Sam glanced across at T'Challa, who nodded. “Well, for one,” Sam said. “I want to know he’s okay. Haven’t heard from him in a few. No doubt he’s safe here, and happy, but it makes me itchy when he doesn’t respond to my texts. For two, I have some news I need to deliver, and I’d rather do it in person.”

Shuri felt a ping in her chest, “News? Is it about Captain Rogers?”

“No, no,” Sam waved his hand. “Steve’s fine. Old but, y’know, okay. It’s just . . . some Avenger’s business.”

Now it was Shuri’s turn to exchange a glance with T'Challa. Annoy her he might, they were still a team. They would always be a united front. 

“As I’ve understood it, the United States Federal Government considers Sergeant Barnes retired,” T'Challa leaned forward and gestured towards Shuri, who rolled her eyes before pouring tea into the cup she’d purloined and handing it back to him.

“Yeah,” Sam admitted. “It’s about that. Honestly, I can’t share more —it’s private to Barnes. At least, he should hear first before anyone else. So I’m here to track him down and deliver the message. By your good graces, of course, and permission to travel through Wakanda.”

“Permission granted,” T'Challa responded instantly. “I'll appoint you a guide. That would be the quickest —”

“I shall escort Sam,” Shuri interrupted. 

Silence. Several expressions flitted across T'Challa’s face that Shuri didn’t deign to interpret. What did she care, after his recent (ok, alleged) betrayal? Sam, however, was quick to say, “That’s kind, Shuri. I know you gotta be up to your eyeballs in the recovery effort. It’s been a few years, but I know things take time. I can’t be distracting you from that.”

“You’re right, Sam America. I would be, 'up to my eyeballs,' as you say, but . . .” Shuri took a strip of bacon and nibbled it as delicate as any cartoon Princess while turning accusing eyes toward T'Challa. “Locked out.”

T'Challa tsked, “Shuri . . .”

Annoyance left a bad taste on her tongue, ruining the fun of eating bacon. For months her brother had been insisting that she take a break, not work so doggedly, practice moderation, seek yogic balance or whatever. How insulting! Here she was, 22, yet T'Challa insisted on parenting her. And instead of admitting any of this, he obfuscated like a pro. Two could play that game. T'Challa wanted her out of her labs? Fine.

Decision made, Shuri popped out of her seat. “Give me ten minutes,” she instructed Sam. “I need to grab my go-bag and then we'll hop a maglev to the townships, hail a ride from there. Or fly.”

“Shuri,” T'Challa said but, as that silly American saying went: he wasn’t the boss of her. 

Snatching up a few banana rounds, Shuri abandoned the solar, feeling a mix of tiredness, concern, and bubbling anticipation to head out from the Citadel, whatever the reason and whoever her companion.


	2. Sam and Shuri Set Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting chapter 2 a little early. Enjoy! 
> 
> Comments, reactions, constructive crit welcome.

Sam shut the clasp of his meager luggage with a click and straightened to gaze around the spare, tasteful guest room. He took in the muted tones of the wall paper, which glinted subtly with gold when sunlight filtered through the sheer drapes from windows beside the bed. A nearby wooden side table held what appeared to be (but likely wasn’t) a battery operated alarm clock and box of silky cloth tissues that Sam hadn’t wanted to blow his nose on. Across from where he stood, near the door to leave, was an enormous washroom with soaking tub, separate shower, and a toilet that startled Sam by whistling a jaunty tune and blow drying him before he escaped its clutches. 

Sam didn’t consider himself that fancy . . . yet he almost didn’t want to leave? Who could blame him. When he arrived by quinjet last night, he’d been fresh from five straight months of non-stop Avenger’s business ranging from battles with supervillains, some opportunistic or ridiculous and others requiring massive, multi-level cross-team coordination as well as sideways management of government officials, (thanks, Sokovia Accords), to jetting around the world with other empowereds (and empowered-adjacents, like Sam), acting as consultants, or clean-up crews, or both. This following five years of non-existence for Sam and other victims of the Snap. Oh, and the war. There was much to recover from, if he could ever find the time.

A tiny pinging pulled Sam from his mental wanderings. He focused on a pulsing green light shining down from the ceiling in front of the door. After a moment of considering how to interact with it, Sam shrugged, stuck his hand in, and jumped when sand poured down to make a tiny pile. Unsure what to do next, Sam stared and watched the pile swish into a sand-sculpture of Princess Shuri’s head and shoulders. She flashed that impish grin and said, “Mr. Wilson, my brother informs me it is rude to bundle you out the door after you flew all this way on an inferior jet. Likely you are lagged? It is fine if you need time to rest; I set a fast pace. Many find it difficult to keep up.”

“I bet,” Sam replied. Then asked his hand, “Uh . . . can you see me? Am I sand, too?”

Shuri laughed, “Yes. I can see you, Sand Sam.”

“Huh,” Sam said, trying to wrap his head around this mode of communication. Endless dramatic options for angry hang-ups (it always annoyed Sam that he couldn’t slam his cell like the old handsets when arguing with Secretary Ross.) “I’m good. I was just about to head down to meet you.”

“Wonderful!” Shuri said. “Follow the lights —we installed them to prevent visitors getting lost and ending up in the kitchens. See you soon.”

Before Sam could formulate a question about what to do with the sand, the pile collapsed back into his hand. A glance around only offered a tall potted plant near the bathroom entrance, so Sam tilted his hand over the soil, shouldered his bag, and exited to a quiet hallway. On the wall across, near the floor, another green light flashed and when Sam approached, another flashed further away. Following the lights, he moved quickly through calm, beautifully adorned hallways, descended two flights of stairs, and crossed a plant and fountain-filled courtyard that held a small, smooth statue of a black cat. Returning indoors, he entered a gleaming foyer with a 50-foot, vaulted ceiling that held an equally shining Shuri, stood beside her brother.

“Sam,” T'Challa started, sounding apologetic. “I suggested you leave tomorrow morning, but my sister has promised to take care not to run you completely ragged. I don’t know if I trust her but—oof!”

Shuri pulled back from popping him in the side, then reached to take a small satchel from him, which she slung over her shoulder cross-wise. 

Sam smiled, enjoying their sibling dynamic. As an older brother himself, he couldn’t help but watch them and miss his own “kid” sister (now in her late 30s, with several kids of her own). One slightly shorter than his height, kind and regal, tired around the eyes. The other, slim in a white tunic, leggings, and high top sneakers. Shuri’s braids were up in two side-buns that reminded Sam of a different princess, and along her bare arms shone bangles and beads. Knowing Shuri, Sam guessed that some were fashion and others tech. Almost as he thought it, she rolled a set of beads off her left wrist and held it out.

“Put these on,” Shuri instructed. “They are kimoyo beads. They will serve as your ID, your GPS, your wallet, your camera, and your method to message or summon a hologram of T'Challa or myself, should you get lost.” 

Sam rolled the cool bracelet over his wrist and brought them up to inspect closer, “These come with an instruction manual?”

Turning to her brother, she said, “And you were going to send him off into the countryside alone.”

“Not alone,” T'Challa said. “With a guide. Pity that we are too slow for you, sister, like great tortoises endeavoring to keep pace with a springhare. Do not misplace our guest.”

“Like I would,” Shuri said. Stretching to kiss T'Challa’s cheek, she set a brisk pace toward the door, leaving Sam and T'Challa to hastily shake hands behind her. Then Sam followed, his longer legs easily eating up the distance. 

Together, they stepped from the cool building into a burst of sun. Numerous winding paths led away from the Citadel. Shuri appeared to choose the most direct. Gazing at the gleaming city which wavered in the heat, Sam marveled at the loops and bursts of green foliage. Despite himself, he felt an increasing sense of wonder and anticipation as they descended, the Princess at his side.

— 

Sam, as a kid, couldn’t claim to be well-traveled, but he knew his way around a city. He grew up in 1970s Harlem, a decade when the city was least-safe for the most vulnerable, a city that took his minister father and nearly claimed his mother from the trauma. To Sam’s memory, it hadn’t been fashionable to like New York until at least the late ‘80s, when iconic “I ❤️ New York” seemed splashed across the city, adorning sweatshirts and light posts alike. As devoted as he’d felt to those smelly, loud mile-long city blocks, Sam wasn’t so proud a NY’er he couldn’t admit, on its best day, NYC didn’t hold a candle to Wakanda’s Golden City. 

At first, Sam had expected Shuri to lead him to a magway(?), hopping a train to the ‘burbs. But, no. Apparently her plan was to walk through the public gardens outside the Citadel, then pass though some University campuses, then peruse a market with stalls selling everything under the sun, (but mostly fragrant food and elaborate footwear), then a business district with skyscrapers to rival the Chrysler Building, except Wakandan versions held natural shapes, some seeming part-park or part-garden. Unlike Manhattan’s hundred different architectural faces, Golden City turned one cohesive visage to the sky. 

They passed a number of (not magway, maglev) stations, evidenced by the tall entrance signs not much different from those that could be found in New York or Paris or London, but Shuri didn’t seem inclined to enter. In fact, right now she strode toward a hole-in-the-wall, two-seat eatery.

“Excellent,” she said, “I was hoping they’d be open. This is one of those places that refuses to comply with the norm. They don’t keep regular hours or post a menu, but they make the only curried goat stew and roti worth eating in Golden City. I trust you’re hungry? You should be, I walked you enough!”

Sam smiled. Sure. He’d grown peckish, trailing this young woman with the sun beaming ceaselessly. When they’d exited the Citadel proper, his guide had presented him with a light linen hood, and pulled on something similar. He guessed these kept the sun from being too draining, but boy was he glad to duck into the food stall’s shade and take a seat offered by a robe-wearing older woman who barely glanced at Sam and spoke to Shuri in unhurried, lilting Xhosa.

Here was something that bugged Sam. He knew he couldn’t side-step being a stranger, not speaking the language or understanding customs (such as where to dump the holo-sand.) Well-traveled as he was, decorated ex-United States Air Force Pararescue, on-call superhero and such, standing out didn’t usually phase him, but Sam wished he could appreciate being a Black man among people who were only Black when they left Wakanda (which they rarely did), who’d never known the inside of a slave ship, who took for granted and represented freedoms folks from Sam’s old neighborhood could never win and held a cool confidence in their belonging that Sam himself did not embody. Shame he’d outgrown in the US slowly returned to him in Wakanda, making him feel more reserved than usual. Shy even.

“So,” said Shuri, once she finished ordering for them both. “Is it true you talk to birds?”

Sweating can of beer halfway to his mouth, Sam paused. “Who told you that? And don’t say ‘a little birdie.’”

Shuri wrinkled her nose, “I would not stoop to puns. However, I am wondering—”

Sam raised an eyebrow, taking a swallow of cool deliciousness. 

“Because there are birds that smash into the windows at my lab; do you think you could convince them to change their flightpath?”

“You’re serious?” Sam said, pausing as steaming plates of stew arrived, accompanied by a platter of flat round breads. Across from him, Shuri’s guileless expression held for two beats, three . . . then she broke and cackled her amusement.

Sopping stew with her bread, she said, “Your face!”

Shaking his head, Sam considered her face. Although Shuri had provided the occasional explanation or pointed out urban features she thought might interest or impress him, she’d been largely quiet, her eyes almost exhausted as T'Challa’s had been earlier. Possibly twenty years younger, Shuri didn’t carry the weight of responsibilities in her body as clearly as the King, but Sam knew she hadn’t been spared. No one had. He understood why T'Challa may have ejected her —for her own health. 

"How are you doing with all of this?” he asked, before he could think better of appearing to psychoanalyze a royal. 

“Which this?” Shuri countered. “This, taking lunch at my favorite spot mid-day, when usually I’m nose-deep in Very Important R&D? This, my brother over-reaching when I can absolutely look after myself, ascertain my own limits? This, escorting America’s Captain across Wakanda to keep him from falling into a hole somewhere, never to be seen again, possibly igniting an international incident?”

Sam smiled. He’d been doing that a lot over the past few hours. Shuri, with something to say, went at it with wit and insight, topped by a fat dollop of teasing. Always those three, which Sam found highly charming and entertaining. When Shuri invited herself along earlier and then appeared to be taking an unnecessarily convoluted route, he’d been bemusedly resigned. In this moment, well, maybe it was resting out of the direct sun and indulging in a refreshing drink and excellent food, but Sam couldn’t locate in his gut the sense of urgency that should have him in front of Barnes’s hut by day’s-end. It remained paramount to speak with him, and soon, but Sam’s timeline had wiggle-room. 

He stretched out his legs, careful not to put them in the chef’s walking path or too far out in the narrow alley between the food stall and the bustling street. Fixing Shuri with a serious look, Sam drawled, “The more you talk, the more I lean toward taking T'Challa’s side.”

Shuri shot up straight, “You’d better not!”


	3. Where the Heck is Bucky

“He didn’t,” Shuri groaned.

The exhilaration she felt from hover skateboarding to Bucky’s village came to an abrupt halt. As did her sense of entertainment observing Sam, who had managed to stay on his board despite a tippy start. When they first departed the nearest maglev station, Shuri guessed at Sam’s type: tall, confident, and starched-stiff. Alternately, considering his age, she knew he might also be a Tony Hawk wannabe. Turned out, Sam leaned harder towards the second, (see what she did there?), and exhibited bald disappointment when returning the folded up board to Shuri as they’d entered the village on foot, as was appropriate and polite.

“Huh,” said Sam Wilson, joining her at Bucky’s hut and nodding politely to not-Bucky standing beside a fenced enclosure. “Barnes isn’t here? How long he been gone?”

“Around a week,” reported the young goatherd in heavily accented English. “Maybe, two. Hard to say.”

“MAAAAAAW!” said a lanky, brown and white spotted goat, whose name Shuri remembered as Nefertiti. 

Isla, aged around fifteen, stood tall and slim, wrapped in a beautiful red patterned blanket and wearing a set of safety goggles. Her head was shaved and, although she wore a hood to protect from the sun, Shuri noted pencils tucked behind both ears. Isla seemed unaffected by their dissatisfaction with finding her here, tending to Bucky’s goats. Shuri knew her type: placid, confident, yet quick to sneak a photo before anyone knew she’d snapped it. Probably, there was an Internet meme starting right now, featuring Shuri and Sam, wearing dismayed and aghast expressions, respectively, upon discovering their intended had flown the coop ( / busted the fence.)

“You’ve been here the whole time?” Shuri asked, indicating the small homestead that consisted of a simple, but elegant thatched-roof round hut and a modest yard where the trip of goats, (a gift from Shuri once she discovered goats’ strange affinity for the quiet, ex-assassin), lived when they weren’t breaking out and wreaking havoc elsewhere. Beside the fence, sat a circular saw, a well-stocked tool bag, and odd lengths of wood.

“On and off,” said the girl. “I had to leave to bring my family’s cows in from pasture a few days ago. Got back and saw what these troublemakers did.”

Isla indicated the fence, which was composed of more fresh wood than it should.

“Tracked them,” She continued. “Fixed the fence; got a neighbor’s fence I need to repair, too. Paid for the gardens these _eyoyikisayo_ ate up . . . .”

“Wow,” Sam said, twisting to look over his shoulder at the enclosure where six strange eyes observed them. Nefertiti stared Sam down and demanded, “MAAAAWWWW.”

“I guess they’re . . . cute?” Sam scratched several horned heads as he unwisely leaned on the fence. (Shuri considered warning him against being in nibble-range but thought better of it.) “Except this big one with the human voice.”

“MAAAAAW!!”

“Did Sergeant Barnes say where he was headed?” Sam asked the goatherd.

Isla shook her head, “He was wearing furs when he left. I’d check with the Mountain Tribe.”

“Ugh,” Shuri groaned again. “I’d rather not.”

Who else might know? T'Challa? Nakia? Shuri fiddled with her kimoyo bracelet, considering. No. As his self-assigned medical professional and case manager for re-acclimation and pop acculturation (nobody likes a sad nonagenarian who can’t decipher memes), Shuri kept better track of Barnes’s whereabouts than anyone. 

“What’s the problem?” Sam asked, finally noticing that one of the smaller goats (Fela? Shuri wondered. Eartha?) had reached through the fence and chewed a hole along the seam of his pants. “HEY!”

Shuri wandered a safe distance from the fence, as Isla clicked at the goat and then reached to shove them away from Sam. “He’s supposed to be resting and tending his adorable little goat trip. I don’t want to go chasing around the countryside searching for him. I especially rather not enter Jabari Land.”

At Isla’s nearness, the goats chorused requests and complaints. Sam, extracted from his assailant, joined Shuri. With Barnes’s homestead at their backs, they faced the village: modest homes on small lots; goat enclosures; chickens wandering freely; neat, well-tended gardens; and kids loudly chasing one another with adults looking on.

“Seems like a restful place,” he said. “Can’t say I’d be quick to leave it, myself, but . . .”

“But?” she asked, observing him from the corner of her eye.

For a guy whose job was punching people in the face and declaring it for the good of America, Sam Wilson was curiously reserved. Shuri hadn’t spent much time with him outside of the complicated morass of post-Snap political / social decision-making, revitalizations and deescalations; he was less brash / overconfident / American than she’d expected. 

Sam shrugged, “Probably take more than a garden and a few goats to fill the sudden quiet after a century of soldiering, US Military and otherwise.”

“Poetic,” Shuri said. “Maybe I should have you hail the Great Gorilla. He speaks in riddles, too. I bet he’s less likely to bite your head off.”

Sam lifted his arm, indicating the bracelet. “Can I get him on this thing? Will sand fall from nowhere into my palm and make a talking sculpture?”

Shuri said, “Never mind. You’ll break everything, Luddite. Also, one of us should maintain plausible deniability.”

“I’m serious!” Sam called as Shuri walked a few lengths away for privacy. “I don’t mind playing the pawn.”

Blessed Bast, did Shuri wish. She knew better: how inappropriate for the Princess of Wakanda to send an innocent to be devoured by Lord M’Baku. Waving Sam off, she turned and tapped out the combination to hail He Who Does Not Respect My Tech. Before the Snap, there was no chance M’Baku would permit Shuri’s innovations within the Mountain’s borders. It appeared war and devastation could alter even the most stalwart and tradition-obsessed, not that M’Baku liked communicating via hologram, as his grumpy visage proved, appearing over Shuri’s wrist.

“No,” he rumbled, answering the question she hadn’t asked yet. “How dare you contact me this way instead of sending a messenger, as is the custom?”

To be surrounded and hooted down? Shuri thought. Also, you did answer.

To M’Baku’s image, she bowed her head and pitched her voice to the tune of I-respect-my-elders. “The ancestors smile upon you, Lord M’Baku, Great Gorilla, child of Ghekre, the White Gorilla. My deepest apologies for interrupting you on this day. If you can forgive my trespass I—” 

“You are not sorry,” said M’Baku, staring down his broad nose at her. Even without seeing the rest of him, Shuri knew his arms were crossed and his knees spread in that annoying, hyper-masculine posture he used to intimidate guests in his throne room. This guy. Before Shuri could layer on more diplomatic BS, the Gorilla spoke again. “And you get nothing . . . unless you are prepared to provide in turn.”

“Provide what?” Shuri asked suspiciously, before she could stop herself.

“Ah,” M’Baku bared his canines. “There is the insolent child I remember. I wondered where you had hidden her —behind ancestor-this-and-that.” 

“He’s trying to get a rise out of you,” Shuri reminded herself, face and neck growing hot. “Promises would not serve us, Lord M’Baku. We both know that, as the youngest, I convince the King of little. However, I will gladly offer an ear to what concerns you, in turn for any information you may have about a missing person rumored to have wandered into Mountain Tribe territory.”

Shuri felt rather proud of her speech until M’Baku snorted, “You are more influential than you feign, baby panther. Tell your brother that the Jabari must not be omitted, our voices are crucial in the upcoming arrangements with the border countries —South Sudan, Kenya and the rest; we, who provide the first layer of protection must also be protected. T'Challa has already made too many decisions without us. Expect a Gorilla delegation in the Golden City in less than a week. Send a message to your brother immediately. I will wait.”

“What?” Shuri faltered. “But, I. We haven’t! There should be—”

“WAITING. WAIT-”

If Shuri could have stomped around or slammed a few doors, she would’ve. Momentarily freezing the hologram with M’Baku’s lips pursed mid-“w”, (while also snapping a still for future blackmail purposes), she texted a hasty summary to T'Challa, who would not be much surprised, anyway. 

Upon reanimation, M’Baku scoffed, “I do not know where in Jabari Land the White Wolf has disappeared. Keep better track of your toys.” He hung up.

Shuri blinked and shook herself mentally. Could he be any more repellent? It was hard to tell who’d won that exchange. Maybe they were even: M’Baku hadn’t denied knowledge of Bucky’s whereabouts. 

Returning to Sam, who was watching Isla repair the fence from a safe, goat-free distance, Shuri said, “Spare my ego, Sam America. Say you didn’t overhear any of that.”

Offering a sympathetic head-tilt, Sam responded, “To Jabari Land we go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely got my Xhosa translation from Google. Will happily correct if it's wrong. 
> 
> _eyoyikisayo_ = terrors, frightful


	4. Greetings from Jabari Land

Sam let himself be awed: from a fast-rocking train blurring the receding edges of Golden City; through townships dotting low hills; to climbing up from a maglev station, greeting a still-high sun; to hopping hover skateboards and speeding across the scrubby landscape and low-flowing grasses to Bucky’s village; to this moment where Sam gilded beside Shuri as mountains rose from the plains: Jabari Land. 

“Old aunts,” Sam thought.“Wearing white-topped knit caps; scrutinizing the kin.”

Theirs was a stern, regal beauty. Last thing Sam wanted to do was underestimate the mountains (or their weather patterns) as he and Shuri swooped closer, closer . . . until she banked, cutting a course downward. Sam followed and dove, wings flashing red in his peripheral. 

It came as a surprise to Sam to not be the sole, brown bird on this journey. Earlier at the Citadel, when Shuri blithely announced that they might fly, Sam pictured a dragonfly-jet, (which he itched to pilot), or perhaps the hover skateboards combined to form a hover paddle board for two? Of course not. Outside Bucky’s village, Shuri had leapt, arms spread, mouth wide in a delighted shout while blue and white nanotech wings unfurled from her back. Sam wasn’t sore over how much more impressive her wings seemed than his Stark-made, Ironheart-enhanced Falcon flight rig. No, sir.

They toed down onto the sand, a safe distance from one another to accommodate their considerable wingspans. 

“We’re not going to fly in?” Sam asked. He’d heard some things about the Jabari, and his few interactions with them seemed to indicate: ‘not particularly friendly’. However, as he’d grown no less awkward around Wakandans who weren’t Shuri or T'Challa, what did he know?

“Bet the archers would love that,” Shuri grumbled, flipping her hood up. “No. We walk from here. It’s polite, and the Jabari are traditionalists who prefer the slowest possible modes of transport. They continue to refuse an extension of the maglev.” 

Pulling two earthen jars from her small pack that somehow also contained the folded overboards and travel gear, Shuri handed one to Sam and set off. 

Ambling beside her, Sam took a sip from the surprisingly light container. Iced tea, sweetened and chilled. He said, “You got an iced tea maker in there I don’t know about?”

Shuri’s hightops sent a few stones tumbling, “I thought, by this point in our travels, we might like a refresher. Unfortunately, when these are empty I have only citrus powder, electrolyte tablets, or effervescents to add to our water.”

“Wow,” Sam remarked. “We’ll really be roughing it then.”

Listening to this kid’s bubbling laugh was starting to feel dangerously like a balm to Sam’s exhausted nerves. On the flip side, when had he become so guarded? Young people, especially those in their twenties, had long been Sam’s specialty. Back in his social work days, even when Sam ran twice-weekly support groups at the VA, he often acquired an enthusiastic shadow or two to mentor more closely or support through tricky transitions.

“What’s the plan?” Sam asked as the landscape evolved into a rocky expanse. They were following a packed-earth path, not much else around. In the fair distance, Sam spotted several goats picking their way up a sheer stone wall. Walking at their unhurried pace, they’d soon enter the foothills proper, but it wasn’t evident where they might encounter a checkpoint or whatever passed as the official entry into Jabari Land. “Do we start calling Barnes’s name once we get close, like a cat?”

“There are usually patrols out around the border,” Shuri explained. “I’m sure they’ve marked our presence, but we’ll formally announce ourselves once we reach the gate.”

Which turned out to be two, metal half-arcs reaching towards one another, through which Sam and Shuri strode as easily as into any museum courtyard. That’s what the gate reminded Sam of —impressive, incomprehensible modern sculpture. When no one appeared, Shuri said, “Ugh. They are going to be like that?”

Ten minutes more brought hooting. Loud, reverberating, bouncing around the rocks walls that cradled the valley they’d entered, with its wide, dirt road leading up toward more rocks, more hills, and finally the mountain range. Sam froze. Shuri groaned.

“Do we have to do this every time?” she raised her voice and her arms, turning in a circle.

Following her example, Sam half-raised his hands in the universal “back-off-man” position and scanned the area. Empty. Well, to be honest, Sam found it difficult to be alarmed by much after disappearing from the world for five years, and then swooping back in to battle a giant purple alien.

HOOT HOOT HOOOOT HOOT HOOT HOOOOT! Five guards materialized from nowhere. Although they were dressed identically in armor, furs, heavy grass skirts and thick boots, Sam sensed that they were a mixed-gender group. Some were smaller and others larger, at least, as they drew closer in a crouch, wooden staffs thrust forward. Sam and Shuri pressed back-to-back, arms still up in diplomatic surrender. Judging by Shuri’s agitated huffing and complaining, but complete lack of fear, there wasn’t much to be concerned about here. Or so Sam assumed, until one of the guards extended a staff and poked him less-than-gently in the side of the head. 

“Hey!” said Sam. “Come on now.”

“You’d poke Captain America like a lazy field-cow?” Shuri’s voice took on a new firmness. “Rude beyond measure. Who leads this guard? I have words.”

“Save your words, Princess,” one of the members spoke in a slow, booming voice and, as much as Sam wanted to size this person up, he held his peace and stared straight ahead. 

The person continued, “We have no use for them, as we have little interest in the American. You arrive here uninvited. What excuse do you give for this behavior?”

“What do you mean ‘uninvited’?’” Shuri countered. “I spoke with Lord M’Baku barely two hours ago.”

“Mmm,” said the guard. “That is not enough time for a message to arrive with the border patrol.”

“Whose fault is that?” Shuri said. “Are you aware that you reside in the most technologically advanced nation on the planet? If your Lord can’t pass messages in a timely manner, that is not on travelers to correct. My arms are getting tired . . . ”

Sam felt Shuri bump against his back as the nearest guards hooted and pressed forward with their staffs. This seemed like a lot of fuss for two unarmed(ish) non-hostiles on official business. Even Sam was nearing the edge of his considerable patience, ready to make some demands of his own when someone new appeared. Dressed in black, with furred shoulders similar to the Jabari, their man-in-question slinked along the edges of the human circle, halting out of Sam’s view. However, Sam heard his low, gravely voice just fine.

“They’re here for me,” James Buchanan Barnes said. “If you please, release them into my care.”

“As you wish,” said the guard. “If you change your mind, say the word.”

Sam heard the sound of a wooden staff striking the ground and the guards turned as-one, hooting softly as they moved off. Watching them for a moment, marveling at the swaying of those impressive skirts, Sam turned to where Shuri and Barnes appraised one another.

“Before you flick my ear,” Barnes said. “Let me say that I didn’t do it. It’s not my fault.”

“It’s not your fault that you’re in Jabari Land cozied up with the border patrol instead of home tending your goats and resting?” Shuri said.

Barnes shrugged and Shuri, reaching as though for the aforementioned ear, instead spread her arms. They broke into grins and embraced, Barnes rocking a little and squeezing with his single arm. Over Shuri’s head, he gave Sam a nod.

“Wilson,” he released Shuri but kept his arm loosely around her.

“Barnes,” Sam nodded, matching his reserve.

“If you’ve come to find me in this cold place, I assume you have official business to attend,” Barnes added. “Rather than pleasure?”

Sam shrugged, “There’s a conversation we need to have, but I wouldn’t say no to the excellent Jabari hospitality I’ve heard so much about.”

Barnes laughed, “You’ve definitely heard the opposite but, run a few patrols and you don’t get treated too bad. Come on, there’s a tram we can catch up the mountain. I’ve got meal tickets to spend.”


	5. Cinnamon, Eucalyptus, and Clove

“You are well, then?” Shuri asked, knowing that her charge would need to be half-dead before he answered that question in the negative. She remembered looking at his too-thin frame at Tony Stark’s funeral, head bowed, exhausted with a watchful Sam close beside. It hadn’t taken much convincing to urge Bucky back to Wakanda, yet Shuri worried that they were only delaying an inevitable return to his old role and habits. Especially in moments like this, as she watched him tug Sam into a quick hug. 

“I am,” Bucky affirmed in his quiet way as he released Sam. 

“Well,” Shuri said. “You look ridiculous. What is this you are wearing? A Jabari chest-plate and furs over a tac suit? Who let you leave the hut like that?”

“Isn’t the real question: why furs without the grass skirt?” Sam added, clapping Bucky’s back.

“I can’t keep that quiet while I stalk,” Bucky answered, expression serious but eyes twinkling as he nudged Sam forward and beckoned for Shuri to follow. She wanted to say “wrong way”, because it was more than possible to make it back to the Golden City, or the Citadel, before dark, and she had a hankering for her favorite fish chowder stall, but Bucky apparently wasn’t joking about a Jabari dinner.

Although the Mountain Tribe had been marginally more accommodating after the attempt on her brother’s life, Killmonger’s defeat, and then the Snap and war against Thanos, they weren’t exactly warm. Jabari Land itself was fairly cold most of the time. Shuri regretted her two-season outfit as they trekked up the mountain, though Sam seemed unaffected and Bucky, despite his horrible clashing, was appropriately attired. There wasn’t much snow yet, but the air felt crisp in Shuri’s lungs and she puffed a bit as they circumvented large boulders and uneven ground, and crossed a short distance to a grouping of buildings that resembled massive, pale trees. Unusual as it was for any child of Bast to visit Gekhre’s domain, Shuri had to offer begrudging respect for how seamlessly the Jabari integrated human settlements into a harsh, natural landscape.

“There’s an aerial lift over here,” Bucky explained. “It’ll take us up the mountain.”

The few times she’d come on official business, Shuri flew or arrived with her brother. Entering the closest building, she was interested to discover it to be a mass transit station where what looked like a massive, enclosed ski lift ran continuously, whisper-quiet. She observed an adult climbing into a waiting tram, followed by several teenagers. They settled with minimum fuss, shutting the door with a soft click. 

“Impressive,” Sam remarked, as the tram lifted away and was replaced by another in short order. “Been a minute since I’ve taken a ski lift. Not that I had a lot of access to winter sports growing up.”

“I’m not sure I ever took one before coming here,” Bucky said. He approached the waiting tram, and opened the door to usher Shuri and Sam inside. “Went on the Cyclone at Coney Island when Steve and me were young. It was fun ’til Stevie puked everywhere.”

“That a warning?” Sam eyed Bucky. 

Letting their voices fade into the background, Shuri took in the smooth, dark wood composing the tram’s frame, Jabari's answer to Vibranium. She ran a palm across the subtly patterned, wool-covered bench and gazed through transparent walls at tree-filled nothingness, which expanded exponentially as the lift powered up and rose into the sky. A few minutes later, they passed another station platform, then another and another. The view was more than captivating and distracting, which was something to be thankful for, otherwise Shuri would have been driven to tears by the snail’s pace.

“This is us,” Bucky broke the silence as they approached a platform, this one adorned in cool blue where others bore different earth-toned highlights. Shuri watched to see how he signaled the tram to stop, but Bucky didn’t do anything obvious as they slowed and a soft chime sounded, followed by the click of locks disengaging. 

From there, Bucky led Shuri and Sam down a long hallway lit mostly by way of massive skylights that showed clouds streaked with yellow and plum as the sun settled over the mountains. In the near distance, Shuri spied a quietly bustling indoor market not much different from the stalls in the Golden City. Bucky took a sharp turn before they reached it.

“This way,” he said, shepherding them through a door that led out into much colder air. 

“Are you trying to freeze us to death?” Shuri said. They hurried through a snowy courtyard, entering a flat, round building. From the outside, it resembled every other Jabari structure she’d seen. Inside, what hit her first was the smell . . . paradise? Deep fragrance and the sharp musk of old wood, again from Jabari Land’s prized trees, layered beneath lighter, spicy scents like cinnamon and eucalyptus and clove. Then, also, various large-leafed plants, slender trees growing up towards a ceiling comprised mostly of frosted skylights, and Birds of Paradise flowers growing in bunches, placed at varying heights in the large, open room where people lounged in long robes, speaking quietly if they said anything at all. 

Shuri heard Sam breathe out beside her, “Woooow.”

For her part, Shuri shook her head. Who had time for laying around, fanning themselves with leaves?

“No,” she said. “Nope!” 

Bucky, who’d moved forward to what appeared to be a check-in desk, tossed a look over his shoulder. She rushed over and took his elbow, nudging him to the side where they could confer quietly.

“This does not look like quick service, Sergeant Barnes,” she began.

“Am I Sergeant Barnes now?” Bucky replied as Sam joined them, neck craning as he took in their surroundings with great interest, and something like longing, prompting a similar desire in Shuri. She squashed it quickly.

“Whoever you are,” Shuri retorted. “It’s evening already. Likely we will need to overnight in your village before you and Sam can leave for the States. I thought you were inviting us to Jabari Land for a meal. This is . . . this is a—”

“Spa,” Sam finished for her. An expression flitted across his face she was certain she didn’t like. Deviousness? Schadenfreude? “We’re on a timeline, but it ain’t strict. Your brother worried you might set too brisk a pace. Nothing brisk about this place.”

“Yeah,” Bucky piled on. “Let’s stick it to T'Challa.”

Before Shuri could counter, he’d returned to reception and checked them in. The situation snowballed from there. A quiet meal of rice and beans and fried plantains beneath palm fronds led to digesting in a sitting room where soft music was piped in and the only surfaces to lounge on were blond, reed floor mats; which next led to Bucky ushering them to a room of sunken, heated tubs where they, wearing rented bathing suits, pruned wrinkly; and from which Sam disappeared for over an hour and then returned from his massage all rubbery and unable to form a coherent sentence. Shuri laughed at him but, after much intense relaxing, her usual levels of observation and critical analysis seemed foolish at best, and otherwise nearly insane. What was talking, even?

It wasn’t until chimes alerted her that the spa might be closing that Shuri realized they wouldn’t be staying the night.

“But,” she found herself saying in a tone too close to a whine for comfort. “It must be 1 am. Where are we supposed to go? Also, I’m hungry again.”

Bast, Blessed Be, provides: Bucky had a plan already in play. When Shuri sleepily exited the locker room, tugging on her jacket that would in no way protect against the coming frigid temps of the world outside, Bucky presented her and Sam with heavy blanket cloaks and explained, “I called in a favor. There’s a place we can stay that’s real close by.”

Away they went out in the cold, where Shuri shivered so hard she feared for biting her tongue. Sam snugged an arm around her as they kept close on Bucky’s heels down into a tunnel system serving as underground avenues. Shockingly bright graffiti and murals brought tears to her exhausted eyes but, before she could truly take them in, Bucky led them back into the cold, down an icy lane where Sam slipped and nearly tumbled. Finally Bucky pressed his thumb against the bio-reader of a cliff-edge home. Similar to the spa, the plain exterior hid a spacious, cozy, plant-stuffed interior. 

Blinking and yawning, Shuri let herself be towed to a small table set for three beside a window looking over an expanse of dark treetops. As they ate, Bucky smiled fondly, remarking as he sipped tea, “This is got to be the quietest yet that I’ve seen you both.”

“Well,” Shuri countered. “This is the first time you’ve drugged us.”

Across the table, Sam’s laugh rumbled low like the purr of a Jabari, cliff-edge tram. Bucky didn’t deny it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and constructive crit welcome!


	6. (Should We Let) Six Goats Loose in T’Challa’s Lab

Sam felt relaxed —beyond ruffle-ability, and wasn’t that a trip? Two days ago, he’d arrived in Wakanda, trekked to the Citadel for an audience with the King, and had been waylaid by the notoriously precocious Princess. It’d been a slow stroll since: ambling beside Shuri and seeing the sights of the Citadel and Golden City, responsible only for delivering his message and nothing else. Despite Barnes’ rambunctious goats and predictably brusque reception by Jabari border guards, there hadn’t been much to make Sam’s pulse jump or strategic mind kick in. Wilson family vacations, which were chill affairs once all the cousins worked through their sibling-order power issues, produced more stress in Sam than blinking awake in a Jabari AirBnB to beat all short term rentals. 

“Dude,” Sam said as he stepped, shower-fresh and barefoot still, into the living area. “You must have quite the hook up to score this place.”

Barnes, perched on the back of a leather couch with his feet on the cushions like some mannerless wild child, ran a comb through his shoulder-length hair, eyes trained on the amazing view out the windows. He grunted.

“I was thinking something similar,” Shuri said as she appeared around a corner, tying up her braids into a giant bun. “It’s not common for guards to have access to royal quarters. Although, occasionally, my brother will lend a guest house to a Dora Milaje as a wedding gift.”

She raised an eyebrow and engaged in what Sam thought to be an amused, pointed silence. Two faint spots of color bloomed on Barnes’s cheeks. He slipped from his perch, saying nothing, and stowed the comb. At that, Shuri caught Sam’s eye and winked, which Sam took to imply Barnes must have a special friend in a high place. Considering his reputation for rakishness and charm during his first life in the 40s, perhaps that wasn’t too surprising. Well, Sam was not one to deny a cousin privacy, so he turned their attention to other matters.

“Leftovers?” he offered, making his way into the blindingly modern kitchen, where he had to feel along the seams of what looked like a flat wall to locate the button that opened the refrigerator. Between Sam and Shuri, they laid out enough food for a hearty breakfast. 

“Should we hire a car?” Sam asked. “Seems like y’all don’t use many personal vehicles here, but I’d rather be back in Golden City before evening so that Barnes and me can settle our travel to the States.”

“Need to stop by my place,” Barnes said. “and figure out something for the kids.”

“The kids?” Sam said at the same time that Shuri laughed. She said, “We could transfer them to the Citadel while you’re away. Royal Guest Goats.”

“By Citadel, do you mean, ‘let six goats loose in T'Challa’s lab?’” Barnes eyed her over his coffee. 

“No!” Shuri denied. “Not that it wouldn’t serve him right. However, you’re correct, they’ll get better care in the village. Let’s fly. It will save time.”

“Fly?” Bucky repeated. “I haven’t seen evidence of aircraft here . . .”

Sam could feel his face shuttling between amusement and horror as he said, “Do you have any idea how heavy this guy is? I mean, he looks skinny since he’s always wearing black, but--“

Shuri wrapped up the trash of her meal in a large sheet of waxed cloth, “Oh, he’s lighter without the arm. You and I can take turns, Sam. I’ll begin.”

— 

Sam felt a lot less relaxed. Before him, moving in wide sweeps like a sailboat tacking in a windy ocean, Shuri flew with her arms hooked under Barnes’s, his back pressed to her chest, their legs streaming as she sped along. Sam could hardly believe Barnes agreed to be her passenger, especially when Sam hadn’t known ‘til yesterday that Shuri commanded her own wings woven from vibranium nanotech. Barnes seemed to have unshakable confidence in her, which Sam guessed must trace back to her removing Hydra’s trigger words from his destroyed mind, constructing him a new arm, and establishing him a home in Wakanda. 

Sam pulled beside them as the landscape changed from foothills to plains. In the near distance, villages polka-dotted an expanse of scrubby brush, sculptural trees, and the occasional towering baobab.

“Doing okay?” he aimed the question at Barnes and of course it was Shuri who answered.

“Splendid,” she said cheerily. “We’re five klicks out.”

Barnes, hands cupping Shuri’s from below where hers gripped across his sternum, angled a silent thumbs up. A hank of his hair ripped loose and flew up into Shuri’s face, making her dip her left shoulder and sail a little further from Sam.

“Pah!” she spat. “I wish you let me braid this down like I offered.”

“Can’t trust you,” Barnes shouted. "Make me look like a girl."

Sam heard Shuri laugh and then he nearly choked in terror when she and Barnes suddenly lost altitude. The dive surprised a shout out of Barnes, too, as their clothing flapped loudly for hundreds of feet before Shuri whooped, spreading her wings to catch an updraft. 

“Give a man heart failure!” Sam thought. In the cosmic sense, he suspected he was being punished for pulling similar stunts with fellow soldiers and super-colleagues. 

“There!” Shuri called over her shoulder to Sam. The next moment, they were hovering over a village that looked much like others Sam had seen, but both Shuri and Barnes peered upon it fondly as she took them down in slow sweeps. Sam followed, landing nearby with practiced grace as Shuri attempted to manage both hers and Barnes's weights, and they ended in a laughing pileup a bit nearer Bucky’s fence than Sam would have preferred. Barnes untangled himself and stood first, pulling Shuri up easily. Behind them, goats started going ballistic.

“Hey,” he moved over to greet them, then switched into the soft rumbles and clicks of Xhosa. While Barnes bent over the fence, patting as many bleating heads as he could reach, Sam stowed his wings and joined Shuri in watching the scene play out. The thick blankets covering the door of Barnes’s hut shoved aside as his goat sitter stepped out and waved. 

“You’ve returned,” Isla said, coming to stand beside them. At this point, Barnes had vaulted the fence and began lifting each of the smaller goats, legs-kicking and tails wagging, into an embrace that not one of them seemed satisfied by as they continued to holler for attention.

“Good,” she added. “They have missed him.”

“Unfortunately, he can’t stay,” Sam said, feeling more regret at that fact than he was prepared for.

“No?” Isla didn’t look the least surprised.

Barnes waded through goats to reach the fence again. Shuri and Isla stepped forward, but Sam stayed out of pant-eating range.

“I have a big trip coming up,” Barnes told his sitter. “I’m not sure when I’ll return. Can I ask you to transfer these guys to your family’s land for the time being?”

Isla blinked, “My family doesn’t keep goats. We have cows.”

“Oh,” said Barnes. “Damn.”

“Guess they’ll have to move to the Citadel after all,” Sam said, wondering whether they should try to bring them now, or if Shuri could send someone to come get them. Flying with a thrashing goat under each arm did NOT appeal, though Sam supposed with the three of them, they could make it work. 

“T'Challa’s lab would never recover,” Shuri said, smirking. “Isla, what about your sisters? Are there any who could take on house-sitting here?”

Isla looked thoughtful. “Actually . . . “

—

Sam didn’t have a strong sense of the exchange rate between the Wakandan vibranium dollar and the US dollar. Still, the amount Barnes laid down impressed him. House sitting, goat care, repairs resulting from goat-inflicted havoc, and finally, haggling with a hard-bargaining pre-teen who could have been Isla’s slightly shorter twin. After they settled with the girls, Barnes grabbed a few items from his hut, including the case containing his prosthetic arm. They each, Sam included, despite his mild resentment, petted and brushed goats for a solid hour before again taking to the sky. This time, it was Sam who suffered several mouthfuls of Barnes’s mane. At least it smelled clean, like wind and cloves. 

They reached the Citadel before the noon sun reached its sky-height. The gleaming buildings and streets were a bit of a shock after a few days of sparser landscapes. Sam found himself missing the tall, waving grasses of the plains lands, the sweeping tans, fauns, taupes, and gentle greens which made up the foothills, and the sharp jut of slopes and mountains that comprised Jabari Land. Banking with his wings thrown back, he carefully set his cargo-carrying cargo on his feet near a pillared entrance. His peripheral vision informed him that Shuri was doing the same.

“Thanks, man,” said Barnes as he set his parcels down for a moment and stretched out his back with a series of loud cracks and pops.

Wings retracting, Sam swung his own arms in circles a few times to loosen tense muscles. He said, “Well, don’t get used to it. You’re like a sack of boulders. I’m not sure how the Princess here didn’t drop you out of the sky!”

“The Princess,” Shuri piped up. “Uses her brain instead of brawn.”

“She’s got a few buckles and straps that help better distribute the weight,” Barnes translated as he shouldered his items again and went through the gate.

“Wait, what?” Sam protested. “Neither of you bothered to tell me about that option?”

“For what it’s worth,” Barnes said over his shoulder. “Your hands were very gentle.”

“Always gotta make it weird, man.”

— 

The palace, with its tall ceilinged halls and muted white walls, was as much a balm on this visit as any other Sam enjoyed over the past several years. He felt his shoulders sink as he and Barnes entered the room where T'Challa had first received Sam a few days prior. Shuri must have relayed their arrival time because her brother was already seated at the small table, yet another display of food set out before him. Instead of clicking through digital messages, or talking via halo-phone, conversing with General Okoye, who stood near the windows, or whatever other Kingly duties he might be engaged in, T'Challa seemed fully focused on their entry.

“Please,” he said, indicating the table. “Sit. Take your mid-day meal with me.”

Sam glanced over to Okoye, who inclined her head but didn’t approach. So Sam settled across from T'Challa, with Barnes and Shuri taking the remaining seats. 

Blowing out a breath, Sam said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but all I’ve been doing since I arrived in Wakanda is sit and eat incredible food. If this keeps up, I’m afraid you’ll need to roll me back to the States.”

Barnes, settling opposite, smirked. “So you admit it wasn’t my weight that was the problem on our flight in?”

Sam threw Barnes a mock glare, “Don’t flatter yourself, logs-for-legs.”

T'Challa cleared his throat over Barnes’s pretend-offended grumbles. When Sam glanced over, brother and sister were sharing a quiet, amused look. T'Challa leaned forward, saying in his soft, lilting voice, “It is good to see you again, James. I understand Sam is on official business. As you’ve returned together, I gather you plan to travel to the States.”

Barnes half-smiled and nodded. Since he didn’t seem to have anything to add, Sam filled in, “We’ll try not to keep him forever.”

“That I am glad to hear,” T'Challa nodded. “Even if his time must by necessity become limited, James has a home in Wakanda.”

Sam nodded and slipped the borrowed kimoyo bead bracelet from his wrist, setting it carefully on the table. “I thought we’d head out on a commercial flight after lunch. Can the two of you advise us on that?”

Shuri, who’d been dividing her attention between buttered biscuits and her own bracelet, snapped to. “No need!” she said brightly. “I’ve secured us passage on a private jet.”

“Wait, when did you do that?” Sam asked at the same time T'Challa said, “Us?”

“Yes,” Shuri spoke firmly. “US. Sam Wilson, James Barnes, and myself. I will accompany them. As well, it has been far too long since I’ve checked in on Wakanda’s US outposts, especially the East Coast social programs we set up last year in New York, Newark, and Atlanta. This is as good an opportunity as any.”

T'Challa stared, “Little sister, you . . . are serious.”

Shuri’s chin raised. “How has the effort fared to reopen my lab? Perhaps you discovered who locked it?”

“Hoo-boy!” Sam glanced at Barnes to see he was experiencing this volley between siblings, but the man’s face was unreadable. Instead of watching, or descending into awkwardness like Sam, Barnes buttered a biscuit and then took an enormous bite. Borrowing a leaf from that wise tree, Sam inspected the lunch offerings as though they were intensely interesting, then assembled something meaty to tide him through sibling disagreements and lengthy flights alike. 

“What effort?” T'Challa said. “Did you stop to check, before inviting yourself along on Sam’s solo expedition? I’m sure whatever occurred at your lab was temporary and long since corrected. A sojourn to the United States requires more planning than simply stating your desire. And, as you know, we need to organize a Dora Milaje to provide escort.”

“We need not,” Shuri bit into a piece of fruit. “Okoye has already agreed to pilot a Royal Talon, and double as my defender, if necessary, which is doubtful considering how well I can hold my own. Like I did in the war.”

T'Challa’s head whipped around. “When did this happen?” he asked his General. Turning from the window, Okoye raised an eyebrow but let Shuri do the talking. “Ten minutes ago,” Shuri said. “While you were sitting here, smug and knowing. Well!” she clapped her hands, and stood. “Good lunch. Excellent talk. Gentlepeople, I need to pack a few more items —shall we meet at the landing pad in 20 minutes? Brother, I trust you will come see us off.”

All eyes watched Shuri stride smartly from the room. Okoye winked boldly when she caught Sam looking, and offered a teasing half-bow, before exiting. T'Challa sat like a stone. Sam blinked and Barnes . . . Barnes dissolved into laughter.


	7. Wakanda-NY Direct

Shuri spent the hours on the flight catching up on the many projects she hadn’t been able to address with her lab unavailable. Although she prided herself on being able to work on anything, anywhere, with most of her files available via the _Ingcambu_ (Wakanda’s superior answer to the digital Cloud), it was always disruptive to be away from Mount Bashenga and the spaces and machines she knew best. Her brain was trained to operate a certain way when those sliding doors opened daily to admit her. The sound of her tennis shoes pattering against the shiny floor, climbing the circular staircase to different levels on a visit to various engineers and scientists, taking tea in the white couch lounges with a paper notebook spread across her lap when she felt nostalgic for old ways. No place did she belong better, no place did she miss more and now Shuri had gone and done it, distracted herself with sentimental silliness while her tablet displayed an intimidating list of people to check in on and inform that she’d be away for longer than anticipated. 

Tapping her fingernails against the arm of her seat, Shuri scanned the scene before her. Okoye sat folded into her usual resting pose as the Talon glided soundlessly through a greying sky. On her left, Sam appeared consumed by his own catch-up work, fingers flying over one of those inferior Stark tablets while, on his far side Bucky slouched, asleep. Someone, likely Sam, had tossed a blanket over him. Nearby, not with the other luggage, the case that held his prosthetic leaned sideways against his seat. Eyeing it, Shuri suppressed a sigh. The arm signified war and fighting, especially after the Snap. She recalled Bucky asking her help to remove it when they returned to Wakanda after Stark’s and Romanoff’s funerals —he’d been reluctant to take it to the village with him and, so it seemed, left it behind the few times he’d contracted his bodyguard skills to the Jabari or accompanied Nakia’s War Dogs.

Bucky was the sole reason Shuri had arranged this flight, here where she was failing to get a handle on her considerable workload. Certainly, even with her lab locked, she wouldn’t have sacrificed so much time for just Sam Wilson. If she was being honest with herself, she’d foolishly hoped her presence would provide a counterbalance; that seeing her might convince Bucky to consider his current state of health and wellbeing, how the life they helped him build in Wakanda made such a thing possible. Shuri wanted to be a walking, talking, shining example of what he had to lose, agreeing to accompany Sam back to the country that had sent him to die when he was barely younger than Shuri. The country that lost him in the Alps, that relatively recently pardoned the crimes and atrocities his alter ego perpetrated long before Shuri was born. Who were they to deserve his loyalty now?

Shuri would speak none of this aloud, of course. Despite what T'Challa liked to insinuate, she had some decorum. That said, she planned to tag along, to slow their roll, as the Americans liked to say. Fun as it continued to be, outmaneuvering her brother, Shuri agreed completely that she needed to keep up her responsibilities. Also, perhaps T’Challa had a pygmy mouse of a point that taking a bit of a break might make a difference. Not that, Bast help her, she’d admit it aloud.

“Entering American air space in ten klicks,” Okoye announced, interrupting Shuri’s mental meandering.

“Great,” responded Sam. “I’ll get the clearance straightened out. Lemme reach out to Rhodey.”

Shuri left them to it, reapplying her attention to several pressing projects requiring her oversight. Two hours, some snacks, and many urgent DMs later, she joined in prepping for landing, straightening her seat back, stowing the tablet, etc. Through the wrap-around windows, she made out a dark mat of treetops. Upon Sam’s suggestion, they were starting their American journey at the Avengers Facility, rebuilt after its destruction. As Okoye guided the Talon into descent, they passed over a wide, dark river that reminded Shuri of Lake Nyanza, which fed the smaller rivers and tributaries around the Golden City.

The Talon Fighter thrummed as the glowing lights of the landing pad slowly came into view. A few soft bumps later and Okoye disengaged the engines, prompting a flurry of clicks and shifting sounds as Sam, Bucky, and Shuri collected themselves. The flight had been long, but not particularly difficult, so Shuri was surprised by how muzzy she felt shouldering her bags and following the men down onto the tarmac. Outside, wind whipping off the lake had Shuri clutching her woolen cloak close. 

Even rehabbed, the Avengers Facility didn’t offer much in terms of beauty or harmony with the nearby woods and lake. In Shuri’s opinion, it seemed in keeping with Western disrespect for natural elements; of course they’d plop what amounted to a bunch of boxy warehouses along the water’s edge, paste on some doors and windows, and be done with it.

“What is the name of this body of water?” Shuri asked as Sam waved his hand at a biometric reader, which beeped softly and unlatched a set of bland double doors. He guided them in, answering, “That’s the Hudson.”

“The same as in New York City?” 

“The very one,” Sam peered at Shuri with interest as they entered a vast, seemingly unoccupied room with sparse, mostly leather furnishings. “Though I’m curious why you know that, seeing as I couldn’t name a single body of water in Africa, except maybe the Nile or Lake Victoria.”

“It’s Lake Nyanza,” Shuri corrected as she and Bucky wandered further in. “And of course I know the waters that feed the city: Hudson, East River, Bronx, and Hutchinson. One cannot understand a place without such knowledge. Just as I know the land’s rightful and original stewards are the Lenni Lenape, who yet remain and observe their traditional ways, however distrubed by European colonizers.”

“Yeah?” yawned Bucky. “You fit a lot in that big brain.”

Before she could call him on his disrespect, Sam stepped in with, “The bathrooms are over there and the kitchen’s that way. Why don’t you grab yourselves some drinks from the fridge? I’m gonna go help Okoye and then we can get settled for the night.”

Shuri nearly scoffed at the idea that the General of Wakanda’s elite guard needed anything from a silly American, but caught herself. And here she’d been about to scold Bucky for being rude. Redirecting herself, she entered a sizable, gleaming, and unused-looking kitchen where she collected glasses of water for herself and her companions. When she returned to where they’d dropped their bags, Bucky was sat on the arm of one of the countless leather armchairs talking softly with Sam and Okoye, who took in her surroundings with an expression showing nearly as much distaste as Shuri felt. Where were the plants, the indoor fountains, the muted rugs and bright accents? Where was the warmth?

“Anybody living here these days?” Bucky asked, accepting a tall glass from Shuri.

“On and off,” said Sam. “Mostly we prefer to stay at the mansion down in the City. I think a few Young Avengers are here right now. They tend to come out on the weekends and during school break. I’m sure we’ll see them at breakfast tomorrow.”

“All this space for so few people,” Okoye remarked, breaking her silence.

“Used to be a more robust crowd,” Sam responded. “But, y’know, the Snap, the war, and then there’s a whole West Coast crew now, so. A lot changed after Tony and Nat passed. Not something you can bounce back from easily.”

Bucky nodded, “Also Steve.”

Shuri went on alert, “I thought you said Steve Rogers was well?”

“Oh, punk’s fine,” Bucky’s mouth slanted in a half-smile. “Bit wrinkly. I only meant that there’s a whole generation gone or retired. ‘Cept here I am, hiking up the average age simply walkin’ through the door.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam clapped Bucky’s shoulder. “Enough of that. Unless anybody’s hungry, I suggest we turn in before the Ghost of Christmas Past here tanks the mood completely.”

“Whatever,” Bucky sipped his water. “You started it.”

“Well,” Shuri remarked, lifting her bag from the floor. “I, for one, am delighted to stay with the famous Avengers. Perhaps I’ll get to meet a few!”

Bucky made a face, “What are Sam and me? Chopped liver?”

“Fossils,” Okoye’s lips barely moved, her expression so bland Shuri could convince herself her friend hadn’t spoken. 

“Wow,” said Sam, blinking.

Bucky added, “Cold.” 

Shuri grinned so hard her cheeks ached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ingcambu_ = "root" in Xhosa


	8. Four Young Adults, Two Fossils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a couple chapters left in this sweet little road trip! Thanks for joining us for the ride.

Sam hadn’t wanted to wake up early, but as tended to happen with crossing multiple time zones, his body went into revolt. He just could feel pimples gearing up to attack his forehead and chin, and an oppressive desire for sweet and salt sent him out into the communal kitchen, pondering how to slake it. Hit it once and hit it hard encompassed Sam’s position on day-after situations like this one, so he ducked and wove and pulled out the big guns: flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, eggs, milk and a cast iron griddle that covered four of the stove’s eight burners. No Avengers facility worth its salt would lack the three deadly syrups: all natural, blueberry, and fake-as-hell —Sam found those, too, and slammed them down on the granite island. Game on.

First to shuffle in after the scent of popping grease and butter filled the room, to Sam’s surprise, was one Peter Parker clad in too-long flannel pants, mouth wide in a yawn and hair spiky. Despite being officially an adult, and yanked further into that transition following the death of his mentor, Peter possessed a spooky youthfulness that let him get away with such behaviors as coming to Sam’s side of the kitchen island and attempting to lean against him while Sam swiveled between counter and griddle with the batter ladle.

“Hey,” warned Sam. “What are you doing? Get back to the other side.”

“But,” Peter mumbled. “I’m hungry.”

Sam glanced down at his messy head. “Take out some plates and utensils, please. There’s a fresh stack on the warmer but if you want blueberries, you’re gonna have to wait.”

“I can’t wait!” Peter said, ducking away to find the table settings. As he was banging around, Riri joined them, looking much more awake and composed, despite also being in pajamas.

“Mornin’,” she said, watching Peter rush by with a tall stack of plates. “Pete, where are you going with all those, there aren’t like twenty people here.”

“Are there?” she asked Sam, settling on a stool and twirling it in a circle.

“So far me, Barnes, General Okoye, and Shuri,” Sam said, noting Riri perk up at mention of the Wakandan Princess. “Plus you and Peter and . . . ?”

Riri reached a finger to scratch under her black satin sleeping cap, “Me, Pete, and FRIDAY . . . Right, FRIDAY?”

“Correct, Miss Williams,” Stark’s AI responded smoothly and Sam stole a quick look at the range hood to see if there might be a speaker hidden there. He never could figure out where Tony stashed them back in the old Avengers Facility days. Seems that tradition carried forward even without Stark to build the place.

“Small crew,” Sam remarked as he inspected the bubbles-to-smooth batter ratio and flipped pancakes. “You and Pete aren’t bored up here in the woods by yourselves?” 

Riri propped her chin on one hand and nudged the syrups over when Peter plopped down beside her, his plate stacked with small, round, golden pancakes that would make Sam’s mother proud. “In fact . . . ” he thought, taking out his phone to snap and send a photo.

“Is the real question,” Riri said. “Something about us being here unchaperoned? Just Pete and me and a giant lab full of stuff to blow up. Also, are we only having pancakes? What ‘bout some protein?”

“Girl,” Sam cocked his head, holding a spatula aloft. “You’re telling me in one sentence how grown you are, then demanding food the next?”

Riri sighed dramatically, heaved herself off the stool, and made her way to the fridge. Sticking her head in, she called out, “There’s bacon.” Next she inspected the freezer, “And breakfast sausage —turkey or, uh, sausage flavor.”

“Who’s preparing it?” Sam asked, like a trick question.

Riri said, “I guess I am.”

By the time Barnes, Okoye, and Shuri joined them, Sam and his little helpers (which he’d never call them aloud, of course) had a full breakfast laid out. Sam gave a quick round of introductions among all the pajama-clad (armor-clad in Okoye’s case) people, although it was mostly Riri, Shuri, and Okoye who were not well acquainted. From the glowing smiles they exchanged, Sam had a hunch that Riri and Shuri would hit it off. For his part, Peter slanted a terrified look towards the Princess and mostly stared at his plate once normal conversation resumed. “Nerves?” Sam wondered. Or maybe the issue was Shuri being so blindingly smart, and pretty. 

“Delicious,” Shuri exclaimed, surveying the bounty. “Exactly what I expect America to smell like at 9 AM on a Sunday.”

“Is it Sunday?” Barnes asked as he poured himself a glass of orange juice, then offered some to Okoye, who shook her head and made her way to the pot of coffee Peter set to brew.

“Does it matter?” Okoye said. “In the land of plenty, I would guess every and any day provides ample opportunities to eat one’s way towards a heart attack.”

“Unfair,” Peter started to say, and then quickly changed his mind as soon as Okoye’s gleaming head tilted in his direction. “No, actually, fair! Totally fair.”

“Don’t intimidate the locals, Okoye” Shuri reprimanded mildly.

“Will you take more than coffee this morning?” Shuri asked, pulling a plate off the stack and flipping a few pancakes on. “It’s a long flight back and I’m fairly certain I ate all the good snacks in the emergency stash on the Talon.”

“Flight back?” Barnes asked. “Today?”

Okoye said, “This has been a pleasant diversion, but I have duties to resume. The Princess has more than enough people to look after her here.”

Surprised, Sam paused in mixing the final batch of batter. Barnes, nonplussed, shrugged. “How about some fruit, then? Or I could make you a smoothie.”

Okoye started to shake her head, then paused with a hint of a smile crinkling her eyes. “Men offering breakfast, blending me smoothies? This is a rare occasion indeed.”

“Hey,” Sam went back to stirring, then scooped a dollop onto hot iron. “My mama raised me right.”

“I’d say same,” Barnes added. “But I’m from a very different time. Got my smoothie skills from the Internet.”

“And your Internet skills,” Shuri said. “You learned from me.”

“Shuri, let the man claim _some_ pride for himself,” Sam scolded gently. 

“Yeah, Shuri, quit pickin’ on me,” Barnes said, then ruined the mock-pout by grabbing a bowl of cut fruit, and getting resolutely to work while Peter, still strangely red-cheeked and silent, busied himself with locating and setting up the blender.

“This is nice,” Riri teased. She, Shuri, and Okoye repositioned themselves closer together, watching the men work. “A girl could get spoiled. Pete, make me a smoothie, too!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Sam, but his heart wasn’t in it. Different from Falcon or Cap duties, feeding people satisfied Sam in an uncomplicated way. He had zero qualms about it.

— 

After breakfast, Sam cashed in on his diligent cooking and retired to the lounge off the kitchen, settling in on a long leather couch. Stretching out his legs, he propped up his tablet and logged into the Avengers Slack channel to check in on the many administrative necessities, missions, and gossip. As he tapped and typed and swiped, he listened to the voices and the neo-soul that someone asked FRIDAY to play on the surround sound. Barnes and Okoye remained with the young people, loading the dishwasher and putting away leftovers and pans. Even paying half-attention, Sam could feel the usual tension draining from his shoulders and neck. Their youthful voices, the twin enthusiasm between Shuri and Riri, Barnes’s low drawl, and Okoye’s rare but sharply funny quips reminded him of holidays with his extended family: Aunts and Uncles and cousins, his Mama waving him away from the stove with a kitchen towel, his sister’s kids chasing each other in circles around the house, prompting adults to call slow down, slow down, where’s the fire? _Oof._ Sam missed them.

A light tap on his shoulder; Sam looked up to Barnes observing him.

“I’m gonna see Okoye out,” he said. “Then hit the gym for a bit. Seems the kids plan to make trouble down in the lab. You okay here?”

“Yeah,” Sam shifted in his seat, straightening. “I emailed my contact in Washington. They’re expecting us in the next few days. Figured you’d want to know.”

“Us?” Barnes said. 

“Us,” Sam confirmed, hoping his face showed how disinclined he was to send Barnes to deal with this on his own. “Remember what I said back in Wakanda, you get to decide, in the end. Not all the shots are theirs to call.”

Barnes nodded, “Understood. Thank you. Forward that to me?”

“Sure,” Sam said.

Barnes jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pivoted, and intercepted Okoye walking past with her tiny cloth attaché. Sam followed their short path to the door leading out to the causeway that would take them to where they’d parked the Talon. Their voices together were too low to carry, but Sam appreciated their physical ease around one another: how Barnes, towering over Okoye, deferred to her; how Okoye, regal and lithe, still managed to convey a soft affection toward him. 

Man. It seemed like every little thing brought on the nostalgia. Sam needed to get home to DC. He wondered if he could convince his mother to accept a stop-over before they delivered Barnes. She’d never been a “short visit” type, always demanding (rightfully so) that Sam stay for a weekend, at very least. With this special case, however, chances were she’d make an exception. 

— 

When Sam looked up again, it was to the sound of a commotion in the kitchen. He craned his head, spotting Peter and Riri tussling for control of something, with Shuri lending vocal support to one or the other, seemingly dependent on whomever was losing ground.

“C’mon, Pete,” Riri said. “I never get to drive, gimme the keys.”

“Whose car is it? It’s my car,” Peter said, lifting his arm and easily yanking Riri to her tippy toes as she hung on.

“It’s not your car, it’s Mr. Stark’s car,” Riri countered. “And if you get a pass on using it, so do I.”

“Neither of you owns a vehicle? How did you get out here?” Shuri asked, tearing open a bag of Smartfood that had been sitting in a bowl on the countertop beside some fruit. “This is tasty for something with such a ridiculous name. Only Americans would make popcorn claiming to improve intelligence.”

A conspicuous silence prompted Sam to sit up. He spotted Peter making a slashing movement across his throat as Riri said, “We’re not supposed to say? Why? Fine. Nevermind, then. I don’t trust your horrible NYC driving, but at least the roads here are mostly empty.”

“Not supposed to say what?” Sam placed his tablet on a side table, rubbing screen-weary eyes.

More silence from the kitchen, with the exception of Shuri munching on popcorn.

“C’mon,” Sam groaned his way off the couch and wove through a frankly ridiculous number of armchairs into the kitchen. Shuri cheerfully snacked, and the other two looked sketchy. “You’re adults, or adult-ish. It’s not like I’ll ground you.”

“You grounded Cap,” Peter said. “I mean, other Cap. First Cap?”

“White Cap,” Riri offered.

“Don’t count,” Barnes said, ghosting in from nowhere. “Steve grounded himself. I spoke with him earlier. He says hi.”

Shuri and Peter waved; Riri looked unimpressed.

“I flew up here from the City,” she admitted. “In Iron Heart, and web-head mostly swung. Once in a while I carried him.”

Peter shrugged, “It’s a long way.”

“That’s over a hundred miles,” Sam said, watching Barnes duck around Peter, open the fridge, and lift a full-size carton of OJ to his mouth. “Don’t you dare, Barnes. Get a cup. Were you raised in a barn?”

“Speaking of barns,” Shuri said. “I’d love to see a big, red one that looks ready to explode into flames any moment, and maybe a one-lane, covered bridge. I don’t care who drives, but let us find a diner in which to culminate our grand New England adventure.”

“Uh,” said Peter. “Um . . . New York isn’t part of New England.”

“Like that matters to people who aren’t from here,” Riri rolled her eyes. “Don’t be boring, Pete. You two want in?”

Sam raised his eyebrows, “Really? You don’t mind us old guys cramping your style?”

“FRIDAY,” Riri said. “Does the facility have a car big enough to fit all of us?”

FRIDAY began to rattle off an impressive list, which Barnes brought to a halt once she said, “2003 Volkswagen Eurovan MV.”

“That’s it,” he said, and drained his glass. “Everybody grab your beverage of choice, we’re hittin’ the road.”

“What?” Peter gasped. “No! I don’t want to be seen in that. Why would Mr. Stark even have one of those.”

“And I’m driving,” Barnes announced.

Peter and Riri groaned a collective, “Noooooo . . .” 

“Guess that’s settled then,” Sam said. While the kids looked deflated, except a gleeful Shuri who’d started rooting around in the cupboard for water bottles, he crossed his arms and took in Peter’s and Riri’s miffed expressions.

“???” Peter said sulkily. 

“Really?” Sam said. “Well, if you’re not gonna . . . I call . . . SHOTGUN.”

“What? No!”

“I gave you a chance,” Sam smirked. “You snooze you lose.”

— 

As he assumed they would, the young people had a blast. Sam was warmly reminded of the before times, when one could take a day in the country and fill it with the joy of small adventures. Times not overlaid with melancholic, post-Snap ennui. Barnes, Sam figured, had done the young people a solid, letting them bellyache and rally against him, while taking complete responsibility for the route and stopping at any roadside attraction that caught their fancy. He and Sam gamely posed for group selfies in front of the covered bridges Shuri had hoped to see, they bought caramel apples and paused at a scenic overlook to eat them amongst other touring families, and fit in a mini-hike that brought them to the edge of a grassy field, replete with decrepit wooden barn. Sam’s favorite moment, hands-down —Shuri with one arm around Riri, the other tossing Peter’s curls, as they watched the sun set on the field, having checked off her Hudson Valley bucket list. And when the time came to return to the Avengers Facility, Wakanda’s Princess brought up the rear, hands stuffed down in her pockets, narrow shoulders losing a year or two’s worth of weight. She glanced up while Peter and Riri piled past into the Eurovan, unsmiling yet embodying a centered restedness, a tremulous peace.

Intense gratitude sparked in Sam’s chest as he recalled Shuri crashing his pathetic party back in Wakanda. He felt fortunate to be able to give back as good as he’d gotten from others, like Shuri, who’d offered him harbor when he hadn’t realized he needed one.

“Okay?” Sam said, holding the open door.

Shuri nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and constructive crit welcome.


	9. Shuri, Sam and Bucky take NYC

That scene in the movie Little Miss Sunshine where the family realizes they’ve left behind the plucky protagonist Olive and come roaring into the gas station, VW bus horn blaring, and Olive has to run and jump into the still-moving vehicle, assisted by her family —that’s how Shuri pictured road trips across the States. She expected irreverence, singing along (badly) to the radio, blown tires, and terrible, pre-packaged sandwiches. Quirky misadventures aside, Shuri never considered actually going on said road trip and was thus surprised to discover herself participating now —tucked cozily in the passenger’s seat of the same, conspicuous (far less charming than a VW bus or bug) Eurovan while her kimoyo beads announced GPS directions with Sam diving one-handed, and Bucky asleep on the rearmost bench. 

An hour earlier, they’d returned Riri and Peter to the Avenger’s Facility. Shuri felt sad to take leave of them so soon; it was as rare for her to spend time with people her age who were similarly bright, ambitious, and charmingly awkward, as it was for Shuri to find herself traveling for fun. Peter had remained skittish during their time as tourists in little villages off the Hudson River, but she enjoyed his company regardless. Meeting him in person, it went without saying why he’d grown close to Tony Stark —his mathematical brain, his guilelessness, those big, brown eyes. Shuri also could see how Peter might find her intimidating, he displayed not an ounce of Riri’s intense, unperturbed confidence. Where Peter was uncertain yet warm, Riri was quicker to tease and seemed slower to trust. Although, with those crinkly curls and brilliant smile, she won Shuri’s heart immediately. Royals had few opportunities to meet kindred spirits.

Much as she wished they could stay longer, Shuri understood the need to continue towards DC for Bucky’s important meeting. Sam proposed borrowing one of the Facility’s more discrete, or fancier, cars, but Shuri voted to remain in the Eurovan, citing additional space as the reason when really the van reminded her of Little Miss Sunshine’s lemon yellow bus. Plus, there was space enough to kick her feet up on the dashboard while sliding back into work mode . . . in a moment. Shuri took an extended break to text T'Challa a canoe-load of photos. With Bast’s Blessings, she’s scored excellent snapshots: Sam, naked except for a towel across his butt, giving two thumbs up as several massive Jabari men stood over him with leafy branches raised high; Bucky and Sam cuddling goats, but with Sam shooting a trepidatious expression over his shoulder; Bucky knocked out on the Talon, drooling, with a fuzzy blanket pulled up to his chest; Riri and Peter goofing around in a cluttered lab; Okoye looking serenely beautiful in mid-morning light as she sips Bucky’s breakfast smoothie; Peter flinging himself high over a covered bridge, his web attached to one side; and, forwarded by guest photographer Sam, Shuri and Riri with their arms linked as the sun sets, throwing deep shadows across a field and shabby red barn. 

Eat your heart out, Shuri almost typed to accompany the shots, then stopped herself, realizing she didn’t understand what that idiom meant. She started to query Sam when he asked her a question instead.

“Hey,” he glanced over. “Barnes sleep this much normally?”

She considered, then responded, “Does he seem like he’s over-sleeping?”

Sam smirked, “Answering my question with a question, huh?”

“I think we are all probably sleeping a bit more than we might ordinarily,” Shuri said. “We have much to recover from, even several years out from the war.”

“Yeah. I get that. It just makes me nervous about taking Barnes down to the Capital. I mean, if he’s got a health thing happening, or his mind isn’t in the right place.”

“Mmm. I wonder if you are more concerned about his heartmind, or his spirit. I agree —I’m not thrilled about Bucky taking up arms. He hasn’t had enough time to recover from, well, everything in the past century, or more.”

“Except for the five years when he, Sam, and I were dust,” Shuri’s mind added unhelpfully. She shook her head to dislodge the thought, saying, “Also. I assume he can hear us.”

Sam chuckled, “Maybe. He looks dead to the world back there. I’m not saying anything I wouldn’t tell him to his face. I want what’s best for him and I can’t convince myself that him joining back up is it.”

Shuri nodded and flicked her eyes up to the on-going GPS display. They were about 42 kilometers out from the City. Surely she could convince Sam and Bucky to stop for drinks and a quick stroll.

“What are you looking at so intensely?” Sam said, then caught himself. “Oh, no. No, no, no. We go into the City we’re not getting out ’til midnight. That place is a black hole.”

“I’m telling New York you said that,” came a sleepy voice.

“It lives!” Sam said.

Shuri swiveled and caught Bucky rising, zombie-like. His hair was everywhere and the scruff on his cheeks and chin had increased exponentially. 

“She’s come all this way,” Bucky argued. “At the very least we should take the kid for dinner in the Big City.”

Sam started grumbling but Bucky spoke over him, “You plannin’ to drive straight through to the Capital? Boot me from the car and keep going?”

Which was how Shuri ended up at a rooftop bar, sitting in a rattan swing, sipping a chamomile cocktail garnished with fresh herbs, and looking over the twinkling lights of Manhattan. Around them lounged NYC’s beautiful people, faces painted in makeup bright enough to see even in the low lit space. Several people sparkled outright. A live DJ mixed house beats that had most guests nodding or swaying along, punctuated with loud laughs and squeals from the crowd, the clink of glasses, and occasional shattering.

“This meet your standard, Princess?” Bucky said, leaning back with his prosthetic arm across the low structure behind him. Shuri had been curious when she saw him exit the Eurovan wearing it, after rarely if ever attaching the arm in Wakanda.

In response, Shuri lifted her wrist and recorded a short video of Bucky’s resting murder-face and agitated, tapping fingers. Beside him Sam, decked out in a blazer and sunglasses, drank something amber from a tumbler.

“Who needs Dora Milaje,” Shuri spoke loud enough for the kimoyo beads to isolate her voice over the thrum of the bar. “When you’ve got a grumpy super soldier and Sam America keeping you safe from any person foolish enough to ask your name?” 

She kept the camera rolling long enough to catch their twin scowls, then ended it and cackled, slapping her knee. These two were too much. Clearly, they (erroneously) feared that she might fall victim to the excesses of NYC.

“You make T'Challa proud,” Shuri told them as she enjoyed another mouthful of bitter, herby alcohol, and gazed over their heads at the young crowd beyond. “And yet you also make NYC nightlife sad.”

“Jeez,” said Sam, scowl still fixed on his face. “I feel unwanted.”

“Is she old enough to drink?” Bucky replied.

“Now you ask?” Sam said. “‘Can’t skip NYC,’ Barnes says. I blame you for whatever happens next.”

Near the bar, Shuri watched a person wearing a short-sleeved suit and gold bracelets leading halfway up their arms, the color brilliant against deep, cobalt-toned skin. They laughed and chatted with a small group of friends, but Shuri noticed they themselves weren’t drinking or eating. Why not? The person’s eyes landed on Shuri, and they stopped talking to nod at her —once, with calm intention. Intriguing. Shuri rose from the swing, dialing up lithe grace she’d earned from training with the Dora Milaje and acting as the Black Panther’s understudy. 

Lifting her glass, Shuri slanted a quick look at her friends, “I found New York. Remain here and see if you can manage to look 34% less scary.” 

Gliding through the crowd towards that enticing bar-side pool of light, she heard Sam shout at her back, “I resent that!”


	10. 24 Hours in DC / 1 Day Itinerary

Shuri had ditched Sam and Bucky less than an hour in. They watched her make fast friends with the most extravagantly dressed group on the roof and then disappear inside the multi-storied Manhattan club. Barnes checked on her once and reported back that Shuri and her buddies had ensconced themselves on the dance floor. He didn’t mention whether she was kissing anyone, not that it was Sam’s business. Some older brother preoccupations were harder to ditch than others. Sitting mostly uninterrupted except by occasional bar keeps, Sam had plenty of time to consider his failings as a sibling and human, and to contemplate whether the increasingly boisterous crowd mistook him and Barnes for a set of plainclothes bouncers or an oddball, non-communicative couple.

In the end, they had to peel Shuri out of there. Sam wasn’t even gonna think about 4 am last call and Barnes wanted to grab a greasy slice before they hit the road, so Sam, resigned to arriving at his mama's house at an hour well beyond reasonable, locked his mind on that four-hour (three and some if you’re speeding, which naturally Captain America would not) drive and sent Barnes to do the dirty work. Man was a ghost; might as well utilize him to spirit Shuri away before her new friends noticed she wasn’t dancing beside them. She went willingly enough and didn’t seem buzzed, which was a neat trick Sam would have liked to employ when he was 22. On the grimy, mid-town streets Shuri glided along in impractical gold flats that Sam didn’t remember from earlier, to an all-night pizza joint where she convinced Bucky to buy two large pies, and then she found a way to sneak up on the High Line in Chelsea, where they downed pizza like starved people, sitting out-of-sight on old train tracks planted with wispy grasses. 

The evening (or early morning), continued in an exhausting blur. Barnes, super soldier, conked out in the van’s wayback immediately, complaining of having eaten too much and too greasily. Then, at their first gas stop on the Jersey turnpike, Shuri seized control of the Eurovan, banishing Sam, who was admittedly flagging, to the passenger seat. He fought valiantly to stay awake. He failed.

“Some older brother / super hero / responsible elder you are,” he thought muzzily, some time later, after chill air seeping into the car woke him up. Shuri climbed into the driver’s seat and, getting settled, toasted him with a coffee cup. She lifted a paper bag, grinning, “I purchased gas station refreshments. Would you like some?”

“There’s nothing refreshing about gas station food,” he told her. “Toss anything that claims it’s ‘meat.’ Also, why are you so . . . chipper?”

Shuri beamed, “I’m having fun. Certainly you recognize fun, Sam America?”

“Yeah but, how can you have fun for four hours at a club and then, directly after, have fun driving four hours?”

“Three,” she corrected, sipping her coffee and turning the ignition key. “You kindly took care of the first hour. I rested then.”

Is that what it had been like? he wondered, again trying to remember back to his 20s. With the van rumbling, Sam was out again until DC, when Shuri woke him with a cool hand on his forearm to confirm that the neighborhood they slowly rolled through was in fact the correct one. 

“Yep,” Sam said, rubbing hard at his gritty eyes. “This is Shaw. Mama moved here after my dad passed.”

“There are neighborhoods that resemble this north of the Citadel,” Shuri said. “Architects have endless affection for red brick.”

“Mmm,” hummed Sam. “Okay, there, that pink row house. I see my mother pulled her car out to the street to make a space for us in the driveway.”

The van click-tick-ticked softly while Sam, Shuri and a fake-awake Barnes gathered their items. Sam was patting down his pockets for keys when he heard locks disengaging from within, and then the front door opened to a lamplit interior and his mother, Darlene, gazed out at them huddled together. Her soft expression made Sam want to fall into her arms —had it really been that long since they’d seen one another? Time remained a confusion after the Snap, after the war, after the after.

“Come, come, come,” Darlene said, ushering them inside.

“Ma’am,” Barnes attempted to introduce himself but Darlene, bless her, wasn’t having it.

“That can wait ’til tomorrow, honey,” she said. “Okay, shoes off. You can place them here. I’ve got a couple of guest rooms set up. Sam, you and James take your old room. Here’s hoping you two giant people can fit in that there double bed ‘cause I didn’t have enough time to remind your sister to bring the air mattress around. I’ve cleared out my quilting space for the Princess.”

“It’s Shuri,” Shuri corrected, smiling.

His mother paused to take her in, this real Wakandan royal in her humble home. Darlene’s smile bloomed slow, deep, and proud, “Shuri, then.”

No more talking after that. Darlene ran a tight ship and all the travelers were in bed, teeth brushed and wearing proper bedclothes, in under fifteen minutes. Sam and his surprise bedmate didn’t so much fit as shoehorn themselves beneath her military-tight tucked corners. Sam didn’t over-worry it; anybody fell out, it’d be Barnes. Sam wasn’t moving.

— 

Nobody got tossed and, in the morning, Sam woke to his body starfished across an empty bed. Sun struggled through the heavy denim curtains and, when he lifted his head, the familiarity of the space nearly knocked him back down. He’d never lived in this row house that he and his younger sibs Sarah and Gideon helped their mother purchase, but she’d transferred some of their childhood artifacts from Harlem and installed them here. Whenever he visited, Sam got to make peace with the baseball glove from early childhood, several balsa wood model airplanes that somehow remained in one piece, and numerous dogeared, favorite picture books and paperbacks. The majority of the room contained bookshelves holding his mother’s impressive collection of philosophy and his father’s theological tomes, as well as bins full of art supplies that Darlene kept for when Sarah’s children visited.

Sitting up, Sam let the blankets pool around him as he listened to the sounds coming from downstairs. From the calm buzz, they seemed to be getting along well enough so he took the opportunity to slip into the restroom for me-time. When he finally appeared in the kitchen, Shuri, looking like she’d freshly transferred from one day into another, was in the process of setting the table and Barnes, hair pulled back, still in sweats, swigged from a Mom Loves Me Best mug in one hand while scrambling a giant pan of eggs with the other.

Sam made a face, “Oh no she doesn’t.”

Before they started faux-arguing, Darlene stuck her head through the doorway, “Your sister texted and said they’ll be here in five. Better move this party to the dining room.”

All hands were needed. Despite not yet managing a proper hug-hello, Sam had to be satisfied with a quick peck on the cheek from his mother as they welcomed his sister, (the show-stealer), her chill husband Will and the kids, both taller and older than Sam imagined was legal. Shuri located the stereo and tech-magic-ed it to play Afrobeat by way of her kimoyo beads, which Sam’s preteen niece Sugar and slightly younger nephew Sydney couldn’t take their eyes off of. Every chance they got, they asked about the beads and then stared at Shuri with aghast expressions. Sam, a frequent recipient of this treatment, found himself upstaged. Shockingly, even Barnes’s flashy, black metal arm attracted less inquiries than Shuri’s tech, smarts, and royal upbringing. 

The meal wound down and Darlene wrested control from the younger Wilson-Caspers, asking Barnes, “You due downtown today, or tomorrow?”

“It can be tomorrow,” Sam answered for him. 

Darlene’s eyes didn’t leave Barnes, however, until he shrugged and nodded.

“Well,” she said. “I’m glad to hear that because I’m sure the grands are looking forward to sharing their favorite spots in DC with you.”

Across the table, Sarah pointedly glanced at Barnes and then back at Sam, her head tilting, eyebrow lifting. “Oh, hell no,” Sam vigorously shook his head, denying her suspicions. Sarah’s pursed lips indicated she remained unconvinced. Grown or no, the woman was a pest.

Thankfully, the meal ended and Darlene assigned everyone a task as they determined how to best transport the entirety of them. As the only person who’d never toured DC, Shuri had the pick of activities, as well complete adoration from two kids competing to win the title of best tour guide. At Darlene’s suggestion, they decided to travel in two cars to the furthest point and work their way back towards home, which conveniently coincided with her own choice of favorite spot to show Shuri, much to the annoyance of Sug and Syd.

They started slow, meandering through the United States Botanic Garden, joining other families and couples and large groups in basking in the sticky, fragrant warmth. The space was such a jarring change from the world outside, so alien, it melted the kids resistance within minutes.

Shuri, strolling with her hand tucked under Barnes’s arm in a mirror to how Sam walked beside his mother asked, “Have you been here before?”

He was quiet for long enough, Sam thought he might not respond. Finally, he said, “Probably no. I was younger than those two when the garden opened, but my family lived in Indiana. After my parents died, I wouldn’t call my education anything like traditional. My trips through DC over the past 70 years weren’t what you’d consider fun or relaxing.”

After the kids got bored with water dripping on their heads from giant leaves, everyone piled back into the cars and drove to a little Ethiopian cafe in Columbia Heights. Sam approved of this stop, suggested by his brother-in-law, seconded by Shuri. It quickly became clear the kids weren’t quite in agreement after having to act sedate and adult-like in the garden. Bucky took one for the team, producing a deck of cards to amuse them with tricks while Shuri captivated the adults with comparisons of Wakandan and US African-diaspora food cultures.

Over the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, their group of eight visited and snapped photos in front of brilliant murals in the U Street neighborhood, gazed upon soldiers cast in bronze at the African American Civil War Memorial (a curiously solemn suggestion by Syd), and wandered among candy colored houses in Georgetown, with a final stop at Sug’s favorite cupcake shop near the Potomac River.

“Now’s when we send y’all home,” Sam told Sarah, as they observed the kids chasing each other in circles on the sidewalk. “They’re good and sugared up.”

“Yeah, Sam,” His sister made a face as Syd bumped behind her, then peeled out, squealing, to race towards Barnes, who easily lifted him high in the air, feet kicking, out of Sug’s reach.

“Thank you for taking time out of your weekend for us,” Shuri said politely, her arm linked, this time, with Darlene’s.

“Mmmhmm,” Sarah responded with amused sarcasm. “You’re kind. I hope we aren’t sending you back to Wakanda exhausted after being dragged across DC by a pair of hyperactive bear cubs.”

“Honestly,” Barnes said, wincing a bit as Syd settled his knees more comfortably on Barnes’s bionic shoulder. “I’m satisfied to finally wrest the coolest person title from Shuri. Took me all day, but I did it.”

“‘Kay y’all,” Sarah reached for Sug prompting her daughter to stop jumping to pretend-bat at Syd and take her mother’s hand, while Barnes passed the younger child to his father, who immediately set him on his feet. Not everybody here had super soldier strength. 

“Don’t be strangers,” she shot a meaningful glance between Barnes and Sam, which Barnes caught onto this time, eyebrows floating up.

After the kids squeezed the life out of Bucky, Shuri, and Sam in crushing goodbye hugs, Sam more or less shoved his sister into her car, and then claimed the driver’s seat in the Eurovan. In the passenger’s seat, Barnes wore a quiet smile that slowly faded on the short trip back to Shaw. Pulling into the driveway, Sam let his mother and Shuri go ahead into the house, falling back to speak privately with Barnes.

“You good, man?” he asked, toeing the doormat into better symmetry with the door.

Barnes nodded slowly, “Tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow. Nervous?”

“Some. I don’t know. Should I be?”

“Far be it for me to tell you how to feel about any of this, but I will remind you that it’s fine to change your mind. Any time, you can do that.”

“I know,” Barnes repeated, although his shut down expression didn’t fill Sam with confidence. Barnes didn’t elaborate, so Sam turned to head into the house. Barnes stopped him with a light tap on the elbow, “Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

Barnes huffed, shaking his head, “Where to start?”

“C’mon, man,” Sam said, preparing to brush off any unnecessary thanks.

“No, Sam. I’m serious. You traveled to see me in Wakanda when you could’ve sent a message. You’ve made this homecoming an actual homecoming, instead pulling some diplomatic or political crap.”

Sam patted Barnes’s flesh shoulder, “You’re welcome, but I gotta give most of the credit to Shuri. Things would have looked a lot different if it’d just been me showing up at your doorstep.”

“Mm,” Barnes paused, looking down. “Think she’s gonna be okay? I’ve . . . been a little concerned.” 

“Same. I saw how she was in Wakanda, looking real burnt and acting like anything but.”

Barnes's mouth turned up in a tiny smile, “I’m glad she crashed your party.”

“Me, too, man. And your move with the Jabari spa was slick. I know Shuri was set to bug her brother, but then you brought it to a new level. That pace has carried all the way through to today. ”

Barnes blew out a breath and Sam sensed in him a deep well of pain and grief and sorrow. Sam recognized it because he had one, too, as did Shuri. “Everyone’s walking around wounded,” Sam thought. So much below the surface, so much unaddressed, unfinished, and unknown.

Sam relocated his hand from Barnes’s shoulder to between his shoulder blades, offering a moment of silent support. 

“Good thing the kid’s got us,” Sam said, eyes on his mother’s door as he wryly counted the minutes until she appeared to retrieve them.

It wasn’t so dark that he couldn’t make out his friend’s half-smile, “Though for how long?”

“Long as she needs, man. Oceans don’t mean nothing, and less these days.”

Before Barnes could respond, Darlene’s voice called sternly from inside.

“Y'all gonna stand out there all night? Catch your death.”

Sam was glad to hear Barnes chuckling along with him. As Sam turned the doorknob, Barnes added, “So what was your sister—?”

“My god, don’t ask!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to post. Comments welcome!


	11. Shuri WINS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted one day after my stated deadline, but no less full of love. Leave a comment if you're so inclined. Either way, I'm so happy and proud of this little piece, this humble offering to the community here on A03 and elsewhere in the world of fan-ness. I've been treated to so many amazing works; delighted to give back. Thanks for joining me on this journey, y'all.

Shuri settled into her seat in the bright, airy cafe and marveled at the number of people wearing a uniform-like combo of blue shirt / khaki slacks / brown sensible shoes / optional blazer. Her tablet was set up on the small, round table, (she hadn’t wanted to attract attention by using the kimoyo bead’s holograms) beside a steaming cup of the frilliest, silliest coffee drink this place had on offer. Despite the massive backlog, she found it difficult to stay focused. To her delighted surprise, the sparkly person she met at the NYC rooftop bar had reached out, as promised, and they were deep into a discussion about the implications of Beyonce’s Black is King visual album. Half a neighborhood away, Bucky and Sam were meeting with Very Important People about Bucky’s decision to take back up with the Avengers (or not.) Also, there was the issue of T'Challa trying to hail her, repeatedly. 

Several times now, she sent his call directly to voicemail. It wasn’t as though they’d been out of touch during her trip. He sent updates and amusing asides from things that would only occur in the presence of the King of Wakanda. First, that complaint about six Jabari diplomats appearing at the Citadel (she _had_ warned him); next consternation when Okoye returned to the country sans princess, (he sent two snapshots: one featuring the General, smug at the other end of T'Challa’s breakfast table and the other a close-up of his unamused eyes with the words Don’t Make Me Tell Umama in bold type across the eyebrows); finally a string of emoji responses to the photos Shuri forwarded of Sug and little Syd running all over Bucky like a pair of baby goats.

The fourth time T'Challa hailed, a woman beside Shuri leaned over and asked in a hushed voice, “Is your bracelet _ringing_?”

Shuri had to take it then, excusing herself and retreating to the hallway near the restrooms where she could keep an eye on her table and make sure no one snatched the tablet.

“Wakanda DC Outpost,” she said by way of greeting. “Grand Master of Operations.”

“Shuri,” T'Challa did not sound amused. “It is imperative that you answer if and when I contact you. I have been careful to respect your space and not intrude unless absolutely—“

“Because I already have a mother,” Shuri interrupted.

“Necessary,” her brother continued as though she’d said nothing. “And yet —you would frighten me like this, by not responding, seemingly deliberately.“

Shuri resisted heaving a huge, long, put-out sigh.

“Sam Wilson and James Barnes have also not responded to my summons.”

“Oh,” Shuri said, her stomach dipped a little. Right. T'Challa wouldn’t have known that particular schedule detail. “They’re with the US Government right now. I apologize. One of us should have told you.”

“Now? What time is it there?”

“Around 8 AM,” Shuri, feeling increasingly more guilty, tapped her beads to engage the video. T'Challa’s face materialized, which the woman sitting a breath’s distance from Shuri’s table noticed immediately. Her mouth dropped open.

“Sergeant Barnes wanted to get it over with early,” Shuri explained. “I’m in a coffee shop near the Capital. I was trying to get caught up with a few projects, but . . . ”

“It’s good to see you, sister, and to hear your voice.”

Bless Bast and her fleet, furred children! He _would_ swing low like that.

Shuri dipped her head, “Same, brother.”

“I have missed you.”

Oh, stop. She wanted to say. Instead, “T'Challa, it has been less than five days.”

“There’s no statute of limitations on my missing your company.”

Shuri allowed herself a small sigh this time, “No, I suppose not.”

“And regardless of what I said earlier, I am truly glad to see you enjoying yourself. You sound and look relaxed; those huge bags that have been weighing down your eyes and making you resemble a jet-lagged water buffalo have reduced to—“

“Stop,” Shuri made a sharp motion with her hand, “This is not a secure location, other people can hear us.”

The sound of T'Challa’s low, rich laughter bloomed warm in her chest. Yesterday, in the company of Sam and his sister Sarah, she appreciated their dynamic more than felt jealous of their closeness. Today, however, listening to her brother’s voice, seeing something tall and leafy blowing in the wind behind his head, produced a few pangs of homesickness. Leaning a little heavier against the wall behind her, Shuri scanned the cafe. Wakanda had many establishments like it; she used that familiarity to push back encroaching ennui.

“I have appreciated the images you sent, particularly that red barn —so quaint and quintessentially American.”

“I know, right?”

“I was surprised, but pleased to see that Peter Parker and the young woman I do not know were at the Avengers Facility to greet you. As I understand it, Peter is not active with the Avengers. He’s finishing up at University.”

Her brother reporting those mundane details gave Shuri pause, although she wasn’t yet sure why, “Riri Williams —she goes by Iron Heart. She’s like Peter in that she’s a protege of Stark’s.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” T'Challa said.

What didn’t quite add up Shuri realized, rolling back the tape of her memory of Peter’s odd behavior at the Facility; his skittish, nervousness that never quite dissipated, compared with a sibling-like ease with Riri and nerdy nonchalance around Bucky and Sam. And here was her brother, admittedly someone whose job included keeping strategic tabs on the world’s shakers and movers, (especially empowered ones), aware of the minute details of a young person yet to win an official place on a (so-described) superhero team. Of course Shuri and T'Challa knew Parker’s masked identity, thanks to the war, but he wasn’t out to the world. 

“Would you ever consider taking Peter Parker on as an R&D intern?” Shuri asked her brother on a whim. “He worked closely with Tony Stark before his passing.”

T'Challa squinted and placed a hand over his mouth the hologram, “Hmm. It’s an interesting proposition and one I’ve considered. His attachment to Queens and New York City is strong. Stark attempted to entice him to MIT, but Parker chose Empire State University to stay closer—“

“AH-HA!” Shuri shouted.

Everybody jumped: people occupying tables near where she’d tucked herself in the hall, a khaki-clone trying to squeeze past to enter the restroom, the woman who’d been mesmerized by her tech, and T'Challa, likely seated in his solar.

“Shuri, what—?” her brother said, but she cut him off with, “Peter Parker locked me out of my lab!”

T'Challa closed his mouth. His head dipped into the position Shuri recognized from the rare occasions she managed to catch him at behavior not befitting a King, such as engaging in pranks or untruths.

“Don’t bother,” she warned. “You can’t out-logic me. You’ve already invited him to Wakanda, have you not? He turned you down but then you became friends, yes, because he is nerdy-awkward-chatty-charming, and you’re nerdy-regal-charming, and befriending is Peter’s secondary super-power. With me, he’s a nest of rattling nerves. Afraid I’d find out what you did together?”

“Shuri,” The slightest hesitation in T'Challa’s voice ignited a desire to toss her head back and crow victory. Shuri held it in, barely, “Say no more.” Darting across the sitting area, shei ignored her neighbor’s intrigued-annoyed stare and thumped down in front of her tablet. Tapping off the hologram and engaging a speaker in the gold stud in her right earlobe, whose sound was pitched to not extend much beyond her head, Shuri let her fingers fly across the keyboard projected onto the chipped tabletop. “Message sent,” she reported to T'Challa. “Aaaaaand—“

Two keystrokes later, she forwarded a screenshot of Peter’s response to her accusation, which consisted of twenty or more all-caps letter ‘A’s’, followed by an ‘H’ and single exclamation point.

“Uggggh,” her brother made a sound that Shuri assumed was him dropping his face into his palm. 

“Peter Parker has no chill,” Shuri informed him smugly. “Next time you endeavor to hide a tech-attack, go with Riri.”

“I admit nothing,” T'Challa said. “Additionally, your lab is open. I heard as much from the techs that they gained entry shortly after you crashed breakfast in my quarters. If you checked, like I suggested, you would have known this. However, I am not disappointed in how things have unfolded. Not that I did anything to provoke such a situation.”

“Of course not,” Shuri said, earlier elation deflating. Somehow, her brother was on track to regain the upper hand: he wanted her out of the lab because he found her determined focus unhealthy, and his methods had worked. Didn’t matter that she’d sussed the game. Didn’t matter, her current station half a world away, drowning peacefully in a room overflowing with khaki. Didn’t matter how creative her plans to produce delicious suffering in Peter Parker; that kid bounced back easily and anyway, he was an only-child —what did he know? If only she could somehow introduce to Peter the mental and emotional turmoil of a too-smart older sibling who continuously Rubik's-Cubed to gain the upper hand. Hmm.

“Well,” Shuri said to her brother. “It’s been a good talk.”

As though summoned, a message from Sam appeared on her tablet. He and Bucky were ready to depart the Capital. 

“ . . . will you be coming home by way of a commercial flight,” her brother said. “Or shall I send Okoye?”

“No need,” said Shuri, starting to pack up her things. 

“Excuse me?”

“Oh,” she said, a plan unfurling in her brain like the petals of a particularly beguiling flower. “I’m extending my stay.”

“What.”

“I didn’t tell you? Apologies. With the talk about my lab, it slipped my mind that I plan to stay with the Avengers indefinitely. So much to see and do; so many spiders to squash.”

“Shuri—!”

“Please give Mother a kiss on the cheek for,” Shuri collected her now-cold drink. “Later.”

Hanging up, Shuri exited the cafe and paused briefly outside when a new idea struck. Balancing the tablet on her knee, foot shoved against the side of the building, she quickly hacked into her brother’s kimoyo beads and updated the ringtone. Satisfied, she initiated the tracker she’d long-ago (and discreetly) attached to Bucky’s metal arm and followed it to locate her friends.

—

Shuri easily spotted Double America coming towards her on the wide sidewalk, despite the crush of (much shorter) tourist-types surrounding them. Sam had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, Bucky held an ice cream.

“Where’s mine?” she asked when they were within hearing range.

“You gonna double fist a coffee and an ice cream cone?” Sam said.

“This is my reward,” Bucky said. “Sam bought it for me as consolation.”

Shuri raised both eyebrows as far as they’d go.

“I placed on the B team,” Bucky shrugged, and when she must have looked confused. “There was a reserve option and I took it. I’ll be spending some of my time here training, but I’ll also keep the farm in Wakanda.”

“Farm?” interjected Sam. “Six goats and some flowers equal a farm? Also, Shuri, maybe you can explain this message I just got from your brother.”

He held out his giant, clunky phone and Shuri tilted her head to read aloud, “—grats to James. Also, please tell my sister she has made her point. When I attempt to call or message her, my beads blare a Hamilton song titled “What Comes Next” at top volume, and won’t stop.”

“Interesting,” said Shuri, hiding a smile by taking a big sip. “Thought I’d changed the ringtone. Let’s hope he can overcome that little problem because we won’t be seeing one another in person anytime soon.”

Double America blinked in confusion, then glanced at one another moving just their eyes.

Shuri huffed, “I can help more here, for now. There’s those Wakandan outposts to check on.” Turning on her heel to lead towards the parked Eurovan, she said, “With the Internet, I am able to innovate anywhere, of course. Why not at the Avenger’s Facility? I’ll be closer to Riri, who needs an IRL mentor (before she blows herself up), and maybe I’ll spend time with Peter, too. Get to know him . . . better.”

“Uh-huh,” said Bucky, drawing beside her as they walked. Loudly crunching the ice cream cone, he asked over her head, “Sam, why do I sense shadow motives?”

Sam appeared at Shuri’s other shoulder, “What she’s not saying is that she wants to keep an eye on _you_ , trouble-maker.”

“Me!” Bucky said at the same time Shuri proclaimed, “Both of you.”

At the van, she crossed in front of Sam towards the driver’s side. He paused, uncertain, as she pulled the keys from her pocket. 

“You gave them to me, earlier. Remember?” Shuri said.

“I did?” Sam turned to Bucky, who was busy opening the sliding door and climbing inside. 

“Memory troubles,” Bucky said. “Good thing the kid decided to stay and keep an eye on you.”

“Oh, my god,” complained Sam, hopping in and yanking crankily at the passenger-side seatbelt.

Through the rearview mirror, Shuri saw Bucky wink, face otherwise solemn, hands folded in his lap. Something settled in Shuri’s chest at his total trust, but she startled when Sam lightly slapped her arm, jerking his chin towards the traffic-ridden road. 

Grinning, Shuri revved the engine, “Where to next?”


End file.
